Bittersweet
by Undetectable Person
Summary: CHAPTER 11 UP Flick's temper is grinding everyone's nerves, and her relationship with a certain newsboy is changing. Secret has a dangerous obsession that threatens to change everything. And both girls are in grave danger... SEQUEL TO SONG OF HEALING
1. Chapter One

Disclaimer: Let's see, now. Flick, Secret, Web, Brook, Trout, and all the Brooklyn newsies but Spot belong to me. Don't steal them; I'll tar and feather you. Spot and all the characters I didn't mention belong to Disney. No copyright infringement intended. No money was made. P.S. Racetrack does belong to me, actually. Disney doesn't know yet. One of those hush-hush things, y'know? You won't tell, will ya? Didn't think so.

Bittersweet

by Flare

**September 21, 1899****, ****10:00 P.M.**

**Brooklyn**

"Sorry, boys...four of a kind."

The response to this announcement was a round of heartfelt groans that seemed to shake the floor of the Brooklyn Newsboys Lodging House. The winner of the poker round grinned, holding out his hand to each of the boys seated around him. "C'mon, pay up."

The defeated boys paid up, and fast. None of them was fooled by the light, carefree smirk that seemed almost out of place on the otherwise blank, expressionless face of the victor. There was one New York borough where one could play poker without fear of any tricks; one place where no one ever used a rigged deck, palmed an ace, or even played on credit. And that place was Brooklyn.

On a bunk across the room from the poker game perched a tall black girl of about eighteen, with a face that managed to be tough, kind, severe, and understanding, all in one. Watching the scene, velvety eyebrows arched speculatively, she turned to a second girl sitting in a nearby chair. "A'right, Mulberry, whadda ya t'ink dis time? How many is 'e beatin' on skill, an' how many are lettin' 'im win?"

Mulberry looked up from her knitting, brushing a stray caramel-colored strand of hair out of her eyes. Her braids and freckled nose gave her a rather juvenile appearance, but her soft green eyes held a look of hard-won knowledge beyond her fourteen years.

"I dunno, Bat. I kinda stopped watchin' a while back. But from what I saw at da beginnin', it din't seem so bad. 'Bout fifty-fifty."

Bat chuckled drily. "Dat's what I'd say." She lowered her a voice a few tones, though she couldn't possibly be heard by any of the boys at this distance. "It's real sad, y'know? Dese t'ings are such a joke now. Shoah, dey ain't rigged, despite what some people say, but dey may as well be. No newsie's got da guts ta beat Spot Conlon."

"It ain't always been dat way, dough." Both girls jumped slightly at the voice, since its source was a head that had just popped out from under one of the bunks, topped with a hopelessly tangled mop of hair that more closely resembled dusty straw.

"What'd ya say, Broom?" Mulberry chuckled, leaning down toward her friend.

"I said dat dese big Brooklyn pokah games ain't always been such a joke. 'Memba when--"

"Say, Spot." All three newsgirls turned back toward the other side of the room. A Midtown boy had spoken the words...a boy who, Bat recalled, had once visited Brooklyn fairly often, but hadn't stopped by in quite a while.

"Yeah, Web?" Spot replied casually, still lovingly bent over his sparkling handful of newly-aquired coins.

"What happened ta dat Manhattan kid dat always useta show fer dese games?"

The lodging house suddenly went unusually quiet.

"Oh boy," the girl called Broom whispered nervously, "I jist rememba'd I got some moah sweepin' ta do." Her head popped back under the bunk.

Web, however, seemed oblivious to the effect of his words. "Ya know," he continued, "dat shrimp wit da big mouth dat useta sweep da floor wit all of us."

"Sweep da floor?" came a curious echo from under the bunk.

"It was a metaphor, Broom, don't worry 'bout it," Bat muttered distractedly, concentrating on Spot and wondering how he would react to Web's inquiries.

To her relief, and that of the entire lodging house, there was no explosion. "Oh, ya mean Race." Spot waved a hand dismissively. "He don't come ta Brooklyn no moah. Ain't been heah in ages, actually." Having established the fact that this topic was off-limits, he turned on his usual smirk. "So, fellas...one moah hand?"

Web seemed satisfied, as did most of the others; but one of the visiting newsies was not so easily suppressed.

"Speakin' o' old legends," piped up a sweet feminine voice, "whateveh became o' da dragon?"

In an instant, Bat was beside the girl who had asked the question, grabbing her arm and dragging her out of her chair. "Brook, I t'ink youse been cooped up in heah a bit too long. Why don't we go out an' get some fresh air, huh?" And with that, Bat dragged her captive out the door of the lodging house, pretending not to have noticed the murderous glint in her leader's ice-blue eyes.

"What da _he**_ was dat!?" The moment they were safely outside with the door shut behind them, Bat whirled on Brook. "Yer da** lucky Spot don't soak goils, or I'd be tryin' ta piece ya back togedda right now..."

"A'right, so it was a bit stupid," the West Side newsie admitted sullenly. "But ya can't blame a goil fer bein' curious. I mean, we's tawkin' 'bout one o' da most excitin' events eveh ta hit Brooklyn." She grinned, voice lowering treasonously at her next statement. "A _goil_ almost soakin' Spot Conlon."

Bat sighed and threw up her arms. "What's ta be done wit ya, Brook? Ya need ta get a handle on dat curiosity o' yers. A'right, I'll give ya da short voision. Flick's a Manhattan newsie now, along wit a friend o' hers, name o' Secret. Secret's only come ta Brooklyn once in 'er life, Flick ain't come at all since dat fateful game two yeahs back, an' _no one_ mentions eidda name ta Spot if dey know what's good fer 'em."

Brook frowned, her curious nature still not satisfied. "Ev'ryone dat was at dat game knows da story wit Flick...but what's Spot got against dis friend o' hers?"

Slipping a cigar from her pocket and lighting it, Bat sighed. "Well, dat's a bit complicated."

"Why?" the younger girl persisted, eyes widening. "He hate dis Secret as much as 'e hates Flick?"

"Well," Bat replied awkwardly with a halfhearted puff on her cigar, not sure how much to say. "Well, no, 'e don't. Da t'ing is, ya see, I ain't so shoah he hates Secret at all."

While outside the lodging house, Bat and Brook were doing some catching up, inside, the poker game was drawing to a close. As was usual around this time, the chatting and gossiping began to reach a deafening pitch; some of these newsies were from boroughs so far apart that it might be months before they saw each other again, and if they had anything to say, they had better say it now. As was also usual at a gathering where the males outnumbered the females about seven to one, the talk soon turned to the subject of girls.

"C'mon, Conlon," a bold Bronx boy ordered, glancing up from his cards. "Spit it out. Who ya wit now?"

Spot's smirk was proud this time; he was far from ashamed of his famous, or infamous, reputation as a ladies' man. "Ta tell ya da truth...'cause ya know I'd neveh lie 'bout such an important matta..." Snickers greeted this comment. "...I happen ta be single at da moment."

"No way!" the boy protested, eyes bulging comically. "Wit seven gorgeous goils livin' heah wit 'chu?"

The Brooklyn leader snorted at this. "Well, let's see," he quipped, glancing around the bunk room. " Let's review da seven Brooklyn beauties."

"One o' dem hardly eveh sees da light o' day." He motioned toward the bunk Broom was under. "One o' dem's too young fer me."

"By two yeahs," Mulberry muttered.

"One o' dem'll give me a tongue-lashin' if I so much as look at 'er..."

"An' well desoived ev'ry time," Bat shouted back, to raucous laughter from the newsboys. Bat grinned; she was one of the few who could get away with teasing Spot, being two years his senior and the unofficial leader of the Brooklyn girls.

"One o' dem," Spot continued, "ain't interested in anytin' but dice, drinkin', an' drivin' ev'ryone crazy by speakin' Spanish."

_"Falso," murmured_ a pretty Hispanic girl, in the midst of a game of craps with one of the visiting boys. "I'm interested in _chicos,_ too. Just not _that_ one."

Her companion laughed nervously, glancing at Spot, who, having fortunately not heard the comment, continued ruling out his newsgirls as love-life material.

"Two o' dem, I'se already tried, an' t'ings din't end up woikin' out." He nodded toward the door that led into the girls' bunkroom, and the girls who were present exchanged glances of sympathy for Dagger and Valentine.

"An' da las' one," Spot finished triumphantly, "would be pretty hard ta go out wit, considerin' she _neveh tawks."_

Most of the eyes in the room swiveled toward a dark, isolated corner. There, curled up with a book, reading by the dim flicker of a stubby candle, was a ridiculously tiny fourteen-year-old girl. Mousey brown hair framed her face. Huge, round brown owl eyes never left the pages they were so engrossed in. This was no surprise, Scrap being slightly deaf.

"Well, Spot," laughed Web, "now dat ya's insulted all yer goils an' won all our money, guess we should all be goin'?"

Spot snickered, tossing down his cards and rising from his chair. "Guess so. I'll be seein' all o' youse, den. Carryin' da banna."

There were numerous calls of "bye" and "g'night" and "carryin' da banna", as all around the fair-sized lodging house, newsboys left chairs and bunks, gathering up dice, cards, and cigars, and pouring out of the building. Broom wriggled out from under one of the bunks, broom in hand. Bat finally came back inside, and most of the girls headed into their own bunkroom to get changed and get some sleep.

"Well." Once it seemed that only the Brooklyn boys remained in the room, and the majority of them were getting ready for bed, Spot turned to a sandy-haired boy called Mott. "Dat went pretty well, din't it?"

Mott smiled offhandly. "Shoah, Spot, it went fine." _Aside from da fact dat most o' da newsies in New Yawk are now broke. _Seeing Spot's face, however, his mild irritation was replaced by concern for his leader and friend. "Ya okay, Spot?"

Spot shrugged, leaning against his bunk. "'Course, I'se fine."

Other than his current thoughtful expression, Spot seemed to be in a really good mood tonight, so Mott decided to take a gamble.

"Still t'inkin' 'bout dat beauty from Manhattan?" he teased, keeping his tone light.

Spot made no threatening moves, only raising his eyebrows. "Yeah, t'inkin' dat if she wasn't a goil, I'd o' gone an' soaked 'er real bad by now."

"Ya'd break 'er heart if ya did," Mott answered with a grin.

"Nah," Spot protested carelessly. "Dat one's prob'ly got 'er cap set fer one o' da Manhattan boys. Maybe Mush; she was hangin' 'round 'im when she came heah."

"Could be..." Mott's tone was sly. "She shoah was pretty, dough. An' I ain't neveh known ya ta let a pretty goil go befoah."

Spot was definitely in a good mood tonight. His smirk stretched ear-to-ear. "Was dat a challenge?"

_"Don't."_

The two boys both jumped a mile, spinning toward the voice as if it had been a ghost. Which it may as well have been; there in her corner sat Scrap, book draped over her knees, staring intently, unblinkingly, at them with those huge owl eyes.

"Scrap?" Spot spoke loudly and slowly, approaching the small girl. Something about her almost made him nervous. None of the Brooklyn newsies really knew whether she was quite "all there" or not. "Ya okay? Ya oughta go back ta da goils' room."

"Don't," Scrap repeated clearly, standing up and tucking her book under her arm. Spot frowned.

"Don't what?"

That unnerving stare was fixed directly on him now, even though she had to look up five or six inches to accomplish this. "It can only end wheah it started," Scrap whispered. And suddenly her eyes were fastened to the floor, downcast and shy, as they usually were; and without another word, she retreated into the girls' bunkroom.

Spot went to bed that night pondering the incomprehensible nature of girls...whether they were winning poker games without cheating, whispering cryptic messages, or pushing him into the East River.


	2. Chapter Two

**Earlier That Night, 7:00 P.M.**

**Manhattan**

"Hey! Stop! Wait up!"

            "Dat's my good hat, ya bums!"

            "Dat's yer only hat, Blink."

            "Shuddup, Race. Get back heah, ya scabbas!"

            Mush Myers, Kid Blink, and Racetrack Higgins exchanged looks of good-natured exasperation as they dashed through the streets of Lower East Side Manhattan. Their quarry, however, was swift and agile, and did not tire easily. This quarry consisted of a pair of laughing teenage girls, one of them triumphantly clutching Blink's hat.

            "Ya t'ink dey'll eveh catch us?" asked the smaller girl, smoothing the skirt of her light blue dress as she nimbly dodged a fruit stand. Over a month of practice had taught Secret to run in a dress with more ease than most could manage. Silky ebony hair billowed around her shoulders, and her pale blue eyes, always bright to the point of an eerie phosphorescence, were now positively shining with mischievous delight.

            "Not a chance," the second girl scoffed, tossing the captured hat from hand to hand. Taking in her flushed cheeks and broad grin, Secret had to grin as well. Her best friend certainly had changed a lot since the two of them had come to Manhattan back in August. Oh, she had the same chin-length hair, a red so fiery it threatened to burn your eyes out; the same scandalous habit of dressing like a boy, in a black shirt and pants, and vest and suspenders of dark navy-blue. The things that had changed were her drawn face, ready fists, and ever-present glare. The Three Musketeers really had taught her to lighten up. Her eyes, Secret noted, those fickle things that David Jacobs had dubbed "chameleon eyes", were currently a charming baby blue; a very good sign, to one aquainted with Flick O'Grady.

            The two newsgirls were approaching Duane Street, almost back to the Manhattan Newsboys Lodging House, which both called home, when they were stopped in their tracks by an all-too-familiar sound: a soft whistle.

            _Fer da love o' God, not **again.**_

            As if hearing Secret's frustrated thought and taking pleasure in it, a boy stepped out of an alley to stand directly in front of her and Flick, blocking their path. He looked to be two or three years older than their fifteen years, and dwarfed both girls easily; Flick being 5'3, and Secret a towering 5'1. He leered down at them appraisingly. Secret automatically clutched the back of Flick's vest.

            "Well, what have we heah?" The boy cocked his head to one side. "What would youse two ladies be runnin' from, den? Someone been bodderin' ya? Tell me who; I'll soak 'em fer ya."

            _What, startin' out by toinin' on da charm? Secret mused sarcastically. To Flick she softly hissed, "Let it go."_

            Unfortunately, this attracted the boy's eyes to Flick, and they proceeded to practically pop out of his head. "Ya borrow yer brudda's clothes, kid?" he suggested, snickering loudly.

            "Count ta ten," Secret whispered nervously, watching Flick's eyes shift steadily, from sky-blue to sapphire...

            "If I was you," Flick advised, and Secret winced at the sound of what she called Flick's "poison fiah" voice, "I'd watch who I was givin' lip."

            The boy's surprise was as evident as his amusement. "Aww, s'madda, sunshine?" His hand crept toward Secret's arm. "Jealous o' yer friend heah?"

            "It ain't woith it, Flick," Secret stated plainly.

            The boy laughed aloud at this, jabbing Flick with his index finger before starting off down the street. "Ya won't get many customas wit dat one taggin' along," he called over his shoulder to Secret.

            That, of course, was that. Watching those eyes shoot to a startlingly deep midnight-blue, Secret knew that Flick had just been pushed over the edge, and there was no reasoning with her now.

            In an instant, she was on the boy; she closed the distance between them in a blur. While Secret looked on dismally, Flick's fists swung through the air, connecting so fast it was like watching the landscape zip by from a carriage. It couldn't have been two seconds before their tormentor was on the ground, eyes blackened, nose bleeding, lip split, bruises being reigned on him from so many angles that Secret could have sworn it was ten people soaking him instead of one.

            "Flick!" Secret moaned, still watching from a distance, unwilling to get anywhere near those fists. "Flick, dat's enough! _Dat's enough!  _Flick, yer gonna _kill 'im!"_

            It was these words that finally got through to the outraged redhead; they held a certain ominous and unforgettable meaning for her. Reluctantly, she dropped her victim, who slipped limply onto the street, eyes huge with shock at what had just happened to him. He hadn't even gotten a chance to lift a finger in self-defense.

            Flick was eyeing the boy with such loathing that Secret was starting to worry that she would go back for one last punch, when the air was pierced by the second whistle they'd heard that day. This one, however, was much louder and shriller than the first, and had nothing to do with drunken teenage boys harassing newsgirls. This whistle had more to do with fat, pompous men in uniforms, and a place called "the Refuge" that struck terror into the heart of any newsie.

            "What's going on?"

            "Someone's being beaten! Oh God, it's that crazy girl at it again!"

            "After them!"

            _"Nice goin', Flick," Secret shouted, dashing over to grab her friend's hand. The two of them started to run, but then Secret turned back, twisting out of Flick's grasp._

            "Ya crazy, goil?" Flick demanded as Secret hurried back the way they had come.

            "Nah, jist had ta get dis!" The dark-haired girl swiftly returned to Flick's side. Dangling from her hand was Blink's hat, which she had retrieved from the street, where Flick had dropped it before going on the warpath.

            "It's almost wintah, he'll be needin' 'is hat!" Secret explained in response to Flick's incredulous look as the two of them scrambled up the steps of the lodging house and barreled through the door.

            Flick just shook her head. This wasn't the first time she'd been frightened by the way her friend's good sense seemed to stay intact in any situation.

            "Well," the dragon panted as she signed Kloppman's Newsies Registration book, then handed the pen to Secret, who did the same, "at least we lost da bulls. No poimenant damage done."

            As if the words had been a jinx, the door separating the bunkroom from the lodging-house lobby suddenly swung open. Framed in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, sporting his trademark black cowboy hat and red necktie, was Jack Kelly, leader of the Manhattan newsies. Flick tilted her head up slowly, clothing wrumpled, red hair askew, knuckles conspicuously bloodstained. Her dark, fiery eyes met his. Jack heard the shouts of the bulls from outside as they hurtled past the lodging house. Flick saw the fury on Cowboy's face. They cursed simultaneously.


	3. Chapter Three

"Y'know what, Flick? I don't _care_ what 'e said, I don't _care_ what 'e did, I don't care if 'e insulted yer fam'ly six generations back! _Ya din't hafta soak 'im!"_

"When someone mouths off ta me, Cowboy, I soak 'em. I t'ought ya loined dat da night me an' Secret foist came heah!"

"Da it, Flick, I dunno how dese kids provoke ya, but when yer gettin' inta six fights a week, yer da one at fault, an' I'se tellin' ya it's gotta stop!"

"'Scuse me, is dere sometin' wrong wit my eahs, or did I jist heah ya try ta give me an ordeh!?"

"Dat's right, Flick, ya did...'cause I'se yer _leadeh,_ rememba? Yer a Manhattan newsie, an' I'se been in charge o' da Manhattan newsies since long befoah ya came, whedda ya like it or not!"

"An' I'se told _you_ at least a hundred times dat da only leadeh I'se eveh recognized is myself, an' dat ain't about ta change jist 'cause o' da borough I'se livin' in!"

"Dat attitude ain't eveh gonna get ya nowheah, but leadaship issues aside, ya can't deny dat da bulls are gettin' fed up wit findin' you on da scene o' ev'ry soakin'. When ya get yaself t'rown in da Refuge, I shoah ain't gonna be da one ta break ya out!"

"I wouldn't take yer help if it was life an' death, Kelly, an' so what if da bulls are afta me fer soakin' a few guys? 'Least I din't toin scab an' betray all my friends, like some people I know--"

"Will youse two _please_ cut it out fer once?" Secret implored from her bunk.

"Who ast you?" Flick snapped.

"Oh, now yer toinin' on her?" Jack growled.

"What da--she ain't even involved in dis!"

"Ya t'ink ya can jist treat all yer friends like doit an' expect 'em ta undastand?"

"How da he is it yer biz'ness how I treat my friends? _You_ shoah ain't among 'em!"

A triple chorus of groans from the bunkroom doorway caused the two angry newsies to whirl in that direction. There stood the Three Musketeers, all clearly out of breath, unsurprised at the scene before them, and dismayed nevertheless.

"Don't even bodda tellin' us," Blink ordered, holding up a hand when Secret opened her mouth. "Flick soaked someone, da bulls went afta her, an' now Jack's threatenin' ta t'row 'er outta da lodgin' house again."

"Yep, what else's new?" called Snoddy from the floor, where he was playing blackjack with Pie Eater. The handful of other newsies who had returned from selling the evening edition were keeping well out of the way of the heated argument.

Ignoring Snoddy's comment, Flick responded to Blink's summary of the situation. "I'd like ta see 'im try _dat_ again!" she challenged, smirking. "'Memba what happened da foist time?"

Jack's hand involuntary strayed to his cheek at that, and Secret had to carefully keep any trace of amusement from her face.

"Actually," she informed the three boys who had just entered, "he ain't started on da threats yet."

"I was gettin' ta dat," Jack hissed, turning his attention back to Flick.

"Yeah?" the dragon mocked, eyes hard and dangerous. "Ya lookin' fer a repeat o' da night I got heah, den?" She started to draw back her fist.

Secret shot a glance at the Musketeers that basically communicated the message, "Dat's our cue." Before Flick could carry out her violent intent, she found her right arm grabbed by Secret, her left arm by Race, while Mush and Blink restrained Cowboy, whose hand had also been ready to lash out.

"A'right," Secret announced briskly, "we's goin' now." She directed a curt nod at Jack, who looked as furious and bewildered as he usually did after an encounter with Flick, and she and the Musketeers proceeded to drag Flick out onto their favorite retreat: the fire escape.

"So," Blink asked wearily once they were seated, "what happened?"

"Da usual," Secret replied. "Some guy was bodderin' us, an' started ta walk away, an' Flick soaked 'im."

"Bodderin' us," Flick repeated incredulously through clenched teeth. _"Bodderin'_ us! He..."

"Flick," Secret pleaded, "I t'ink dey can guess what 'e implied." She hurried on, because all three boys' eyes had had flashed murderously at those words, "It ain't like 'e did anytin', dough. Ain't like 'e would've. An' it ain't like 'e _could've."_

"'Course he couldn't have," Blink replied. "Dat ain't da point. Da point is dat insultin' ya's bad enough."

"No," Secret moaned, "da _point_ is dat we's s'posta be convincin' Flick ta stop soakin' people."

"Oh, well, dere's dat too," Blink admitted. Secret shook her head and turned hopefully to Mush, the member of the trio with whom she was closest. He didn't disappoint her.

"Flick," the curly-haired boy spoke up at once, "Secret's right. Ya gotta stop gettin' inta so many fights. Not only is Jack right 'bout da bulls bein' afta ya, but pretty soon dey'll start blamin' ev'rytin' dat happens 'round heah on ya. An' not jist on you; on all da Manhattan newsies. Dat's da way da bulls t'ink."

"E'zactly!" Secret, delighted at the support, then turned a pointed glare on Race and Blink. While he was still furious over what the boy had said to Flick and Secret, Blink did have his own contribution to offer.

"Well, Flick," he began hesitantly, "I gotta say, I really t'ink ya oughta be showin' moah respect fer Jack. He _is_ da leadeh 'round heah...an' he's a good leadeh, too. I t'ink ya know dat, even if ya don't happen ta like 'im poisonally. He only wants what's best fer 'is newsies. Even you."

"I'd soak da lot o' youse if my fists hadn't been t'rough enough t'day," Flick declared.

Rolling her eyes, Secret turned to jab Race. As a rule, each of them was supposed to help out whenever they were forced to lecture Flick on her violence...which was about once a week. The task was so arduous, and so hopeless, that it needed as many supporters as it could get.

Flick too turned to Race, eyes growing lighter with trust. For about the first week of these episodes, Race had supported Flick staunchly, helping her argue with the others to justify her actions. Then, when Jack had finally stopped speaking to him altogether, he had started making up rather weak admonishments for Flick on every occasion that they were required. No matter how convincing, Flick always knew his scolding was fake. Though he didn't share her passion for fighting, Racetrack was in every other way her partner in crime; from raking in the dough in a poker game to losing it all at horse races. She could count on _him _not to turn traitor.

Race stalled for time, pulling the cigar out of his mouth and exhaling a stream of smoke before speaking. When he did, turning to look straight at the girl beside him, it was with such force that all four of his friends were rather surprised.

"I really wish ya would stop fightin', Flick. An' not jist 'cause o' da bulls or Jack, 'cause I know ya don't care 'bout dose t'ings." He took a deep breath, motioning first around the fire escape, then toward the window. "It's 'cause o' _us_ dat I wish ya'd stop. Da five of us, 'specially, an' all de oddas too. Ev'ry time ya soak someone, you an' Cowboy fight. An' ev'ry time ya fight, it puts da whole lodgin' house on edge. It's been goin' on long enough now dat befoah ya know it, people are gonna start takin' sides, an' we'll become a divided gang o' newsies. I mean, God, we could end up in as much trouble as Queens."

By the time Race was through with this speech, all of his companions were staring at him; three expressions surprised and grateful, one betrayed and questioning.

"Well," Secret murmured to Flick, "ya consida yaself told off now?"

Flick glared at her. "I jist don't undastand ya dese days. I'se been soakin' people as long as youse known me, an' ya neveh badga'd me 'bout it befoah."

Secret's eyes strayed to the city below them. "Dat," she explained softly, "is 'cause, back in Harlem, we was always beggin' Song ta loin ta fight. It wouldn't o' helped mattas if I toined around an' started tellin' you ta _stop_ fightin'."

 Flick was silent at this; her eyes lowered quickly, a sure sign that she was experiencing an emotion she wanted to hide. Secret shut up guiltily. Although she and Flick had, over the past month, slowly become comfortable with talking about Song, her name was still painful to both of them, and invoking it was hardly going to help mend the current situation.

Blink regarded the two girls sympathetically and tried to help by changing the subject. "Ya mean Flick's been soakin' people since she was _seven?" _

"Oh yeah," Flick answered proudly, grateful for the diversion. "I'se been soakin' people...well, a'right, at least tryin' ta soak 'em...since I was 'bout five."

 "Geez!" Mush whistled. "No wonda ya fight so good by now. Dis goil belongs in Brooklyn, don't she, Secret?"  
Secret's head jerked around to face Mush as if she'd been slapped. Her mind whirled just as quickly, flung into the past so fast and so vividly that it was almost like being possessed.

_ An August night. A cold, softly glowing white moon, wreathed in silvery clouds. A veil of mist over a darkly rippling, whispering river. The perfect serenity shattered by words that cut deep into her soul, turning her world upside-down and stirring emotions inside of her that she didn't even recognize. She was wearing strange clothes, clothes that were not her own...a shirt and pants. Boy's clothes. She was angry, afraid, and there was a face before her...golden hair, ice-blue eyes so like her own, and those words that drove her over the edge and into a state she didn't recognize. Running, trying to escape those words and their cruel meaning...her hand shooting out, her fist, and then a sound, to wake her up again, to bring her back to her senses...a loud splash._

 "Secret? _Secret?"_

 "Wha-?!" Instantly, Secret was drawn back into the present, but with a lingering sense of discomfort and annoyance at the strangely haunting memory and the power it held over her.

 Quickly, she urged her surroundings to come back into focus, and dredged up something practical to say. "C'mon, we best be gettin' inside. Kloppman'll be callin' fer lights-out soon." And with that, she rose and climbed back in through the window. Mush and Blink, exchanging puzzled glances, followed her. Race started to do the same, but Flick grabbed his sleeve.

 "Pokah?" she demanded.

 Race turned back toward the redhead, grinning. "Always," he assured her, and sat back down on the fire escape, already pulling out his deck and starting to shuffle.

"So," Flick commented casually as Race dealt the cards. "Dat was some good actin'."  
His brown eyes darted briefly to her face before returning to his task.  
"T'anks."

 The girl nodded thoughtfully. She accepted her hand from him as he dealt it, examined her cards, then added, "Dat was some _really_ good actin'."

 "What can I say? I'se jist got da talent, I guess."

 He wasn't meeting her eyes, Flick noted. He'd had no trouble meeting them when he was lecturing her about tearing the lodging house apart. _Pretending _to lecture her, that is. Acting, to keep on Secret and Jack's good sides. Or so he claimed.

 "Betta actin' den I'se eveh seen ya pull off befoah..." she mused as she made her ante.

 "So, whadda ya t'ink's up wit Secret?"

 Flick raised half-amused, half-irritated eyes to Racetrack's face. Race berated himself silently.

_ Oh, real smooth, Higgins. Nice, quick change o' da subject. Why not be a bit moah subtle an' jist say, "Y'know, Flick, let's tawk about sometin' else, okay?"_

 Though far from fooled by Race's obvious evasion, Flick decided to play along, only because the subject he had brought up was one of real concern for her. "Secret? God, I dunno. She's been doin' dat eveh since da whole biz'ness wit Song an' da territory war cleahed up. Yeh'll be tawkin' ta her, an' suddenly she'll jist go all blank an' far away, like she don't heah a woid yer sayin'." She started to continue, then stopped, thinking better of it. "Start ya off at five," she announced, placing a nickel between the two of them.

 She saw Race eyeing her suspiciously as he called her bet, but pretended not to notice. If he wasn't going to explain exactly why his little tirade about her violent habits had sounded so disturbingly sincere, then she wasn't going to mention what she'd figured out about Secret's little "trances". Namely, that they occured every time someone mentioned Brooklyn.  
  
"All right, ta bed with all o' youse! C'mon, ya got papes ta sell tomorrow! Snitch, Itey, Blink! Snoddy, give Specs his glasses! Snipeshoota, put that cigar out this instant an' I'll just pretend I didn't see it, a'right?" Kloppman turned to the window, giving it a sharp tap with his broomstick before raising it. "Flick, Racetrack, get in heah! Enough pokah t'night! An' Flick, I wanna see yer eyes open tomorrow at 6:00 _sharp!"_

 Secret watched from her bunk as Flick and Race gathered up Race's cards and climbed, grumbling, back into the bunkroom. Nodding, Kloppman bade them good night, turned out the light, and left the room.

 "I dunno why he still boddas me 'bout wakin' up on time," Flick yawned as she grabbed her nightgown and headed into the washroom. "I ain't ovehslept since you started handlin' my wake-up calls, Race."

 Snickering, Race peeled off his suspenders and shirt and climbed into the bottom bunk across from Secret's.

 "Hey," he whispered to her, his voice inaudible to the room full of newsboys due to their usual pre-bed clamor, "you okay?"

 "I'se fine," Secret mumbled in response, turning over so that her back faced him. "Night, Race."

 A few moments later, Flick emerged from the washroom, striding across the room and climbing into the bunk above Secret's without so much as a good night. Secret supposed she was still mad over the organized scoldings. _Well, she desoived 'em._

 Assuring herself that her conscience was clean, the newsgirl huddled under the covers and closed her eyes. This was a mistake. For behind her eyes lurked an all-too-familiar image. A night back in August...a misty moonlit river...and a face that threatened, challenged, taunted, and tantalized. She knew then that once again, sleep was not going to come.


	4. Chapter Four

**Same "Night", 1:00 A.M.**  
**Manhattan**

It was true. Sleep really _wasn't_ going to come.

Secret moaned softly, rolling over for about the hundredth time. Despite the fact that the September nights were growing steadily cooler, she felt hot, fidgety, restless. Her itchy cotton nightgown clung to her skin, and the door leading out of the bunkroom was beginning to look more and more appealing.

_Whatcha t'inkin', goil? _She berated herself silently, shocked at the suggestion that her own mind seemed to be considering. _No way can ya be t'inkin' o' goin' out on da streets o' New Yawk at dis time o' night. What, 'ave ya somehow f'gotten Song already?_

This thought made Secret shudder, and not only because the emotional wound of her friend's death was still fresh. It was also because, in a way, it almost seemed as if she _had_ forgotten Song, at least temporarily. For the first couple weeks after that terrible night, it had been all Secret could think about; it had been the thing that kept her up at night, and haunted her dreams on the few occasions sleep claimed her. But now those tragic memories had been replaced by another memory, another series of words and images, and one which, by all rights, should be a great deal less significant and less emotional than those surrounding her best friend's murder.

The memory that haunted her now was such a simple one. A beautiful moonlit river full of swimming newsies. A small, handsome, arrogant newsboy, speaking harshly to her, strongly implying that he believed the rumors proclaiming Flick as Song's killer. Secret had been horrified, shocked and upset, frightened and angry. For one of the very few times in her life, she had lost her famous cool, her famous good sense. She had allowed her almost nonexistent temper to take over, and she had pushed Spot Conlon into the river.

Thinking about that night, Secret found it so easy to explain in her mind, to summarize in perfectly simple and rational words. But the words didn't seem to fit what had really happened. They couldn't accurately describe half of the things she remembered most...the mysterious and alluring way that the mists embraced the water, the complex tangle of emotions that had stormed inside her, and most of all, that face...she couldn't even begin to describe the experience of looking into that face for the first time.

This thought was followed by such a powerful wave of shock and self-disgust that Secret feared she might be sick.

_"Couldn't stay in dat liddle room...I was...**feelin' **too much...y'know?"_

It was Flick who had said that once, describing how she'd felt one night at the boarding house where the two of them had stayed briefly after Song's death. Reflecting on the statement, Secret understood it completely. It was exactly how she felt now. And before her calm and rational mind could make any kind of protest, her traitorous legs were swinging over the edge of her bunk. Her traitorous eyes were scanning the room, glancing into the bunk above her, making sure that Flick and all the boys were sound asleep. Before her brain could even manage to grasp what she was doing, she had been in and out of the washroom, casting off her nightgown and pulling her dress over her head, drifting out into the lobby like an ice-blue, ebony-haired wraith. Past the table that held the Registration Book, past the door that led up some stairs into Kloppman's room, and, with a last sinking feeling of resignation, out the door of the lodging house.

As her bare feet carried her softly down the dark street, as she shivered in the slight early-autumn chill, and as she wondered in bewilderment where on Earth she thought she was going, Secret flashed back once more on the quote that had inspired this insane journey.

_Now I know I'se in trouble. God help me, I'se t'inkin' like Flick._

One by one, the streets and the buildings that lined them flashed by, each one fading into the next. Secret paid no attention to them, except for a growing feeling of unease. For she knew full well that every step which carried her farther from Duane Street was a step farther from safety, deeper into the dark and dangerous unknown. Periodically, the sentence _Dis is so da stupid an' I can't believe I'se doin' it_ crossed her mind, but other than that, her thoughts remained focused on the topic that had started her off on this crazy nighttime walk in the first place.

Secret had no desire to think of this topic anymore. If it were up to her, she would dismiss it completely. But apparently, her thoughts and the feelings attached to them no longer _were_ up to her. Brooklyn, it seemed, could do that to people.

Spot Conlon could do that to people.

Spot Conlon could do that to _girls._

**October 19, 1890, 12:00 Noon**

**Harlem**

_ "But if ya knew, even den..."_

_ "Poor child...it seems so simple ta you, don't it? Ya can't undastand how it was fer me...he was da most amazin' poyson I eveh met. Wild, lighthearted, jokin' an' fun-lovin'...da life o' da party. Charismatic, I t'ink dat's what a scholah would call it. Means...charmin', y'know? Irresistible. I was...fascinated. Enthralled. Obsessed, ya might say. I was unda his spell...but I can't believe I'm tellin' ya dis! A liddle goil o' six..."_

_ "I don't t'ink ya shoulda married 'im, Mama."_

_ "Oh, darlin'! Don't be t'inkin' dat way. Imagine a baby like you sayin' sometin' like dat. An' about yer own papa. If I neveh married 'im, I neveh woulda had you...my poor liddle daughda. My sweet, sensible daughda. You won't make da same mistake yer mama made."_

**Back To The Present**

"Oh, won't I?" Secret spoke aloud, although there was no one to hear her; the stillness of the night was beginning to bother her. "Well, I'se shoah glad ya had so much faith in me, Mama." Her voice was laced with bitter sarcasm. "'Cause I'se startin' ta have doubts about me, myself."

She was saved from having to analyze whether that sentence had made any sense by the sudden realization of where she was. This was followed by a stream of words that would have caused Secret's mother, had she still been alive, to wash her daughter's mouth out with soap.

Around her, the night breeze stirred up the air, raising goosebumps on her neck and muttering ominously. Below her, the East River sparkled, serene as ever. And before her stretched...well, what had she expected?...the Brooklyn Bridge.

Stupidly, Secret stared at it. She stared straight ahead into the darkness until she could swear she saw a face staring back at her. Gold hair, grey cap, ice-blue eyes...

_Secret, ya bloody psychopath!_

The imaginary face vanished, but the tension it had created did not. The shaken newsgirl found herself wondering if insanity was contagious. Could she have caught it from Flick? After all, Flick had, about three weeks ago, spent one unforgettable night believing that she had murdered her best friend.

Then Secret laughed dryly. _Of all da dumb excuses ya coulda come up wit, dat one beats 'em all. _Sure, Flick occasionally had her own mental issues, but she would never be caught dead in the kind of situation she found herself in now. Secret actually laughed as she tried to picture Flick becoming obsessed with a boy.

Amusing thoughts of Flick were just beginning to distract Secret from disturbing thoughts of Spot when her solitude was suddenly shattered without warning. The sound of footsteps met her ears, and her eyes widened at the sight of two figures approaching across the bridge. Their footsteps were mingled with loud, rapid conversation...and then a burst of high, girlish laughter. This actually frightened Secret more than if it had been a gang of thugs with clubs and chains. If there was one thing she and Flick had in common, it was a mortal terror of high girlish laughter. Diving for the nearest shrub, Secret ducked out of sight and silently eavesdropped on the intruders.

"I dunno what's wrong wit ya, Punky! Da most gorgeous guy eveh ta walk da oith, an' ya'd barely even _look_ at 'im..."

"C'mon, Trigga," moaned the other girl's voice, "ya know 'is reputation. You din't even bodda ta tawk ta poor Valentine...she knows foisthand what a joik he is, even dough she's too nice ta put it like dat..."

"Punky," the first girl's voice interrupted impatiently, "yer jist da craziest goil I'se eveh met. Shoah, Spot ain't got da greatest hist'ry wit goils, but if dat's enough ta make ya stay away from him, ya ain't even human. Did ya even get a look at dat face? I'd be happy ta _drown_ in dose eyes..."

To Secret's enormous relief, the girls were apparently capable of walking while talking, and at this point, the distance between them and her bush became sufficient for their voices to fade away into the night.

As soon as the footsteps had become completely inaudible, Secret burst out from behind her bush as if she'd been shot from a cannon. "Dat's it!" she declared. "Dat is absolutely, positively _it! _I look inside my mind an' see Brooklyn. I look at wheah I am an' see Brooklyn. I look at da people around me, an' I heah Brooklyn...Brooklyn..._Brooklyn__!"_ The word had quickly become a swear word to her, representing both the borough by that name and, more to the point, the boy who owned its streets.

"Punky...Trigga...who _were_ dose goils? What were dey doin' comin' back from Brooklyn at one in da mornin'? _Real _safe. Wait a second, did I really jist say dat? Me, da goil dat was wanderin' 'round New Yawk _alone _at one in da mornin'? But I ain't usually like dis. It's all Spot's fault. Which makes no sense, 'cause I'se barely met da kid. An' why'd I go an' t'ink o' my mudda t'night? I ain't t'ought o' her in yeahs..."

This monologue of Secret's was being carried on as she navigated swiftly through the streets of Manhattan, away from the Brooklyn Bridge and back in the direction of the lodging house, which she was entirely aware she should never have left. She shut her mouth when the sign for Duane Street came into view, heaving a sigh of relief as she turned onto the familiar street and approached the welcome form of her shabby home.

And stopped dead in her tracks.

_A'right, dis's been a seriously bizarre night. Dis wouldn't be da foist time t'night dat I saw or hoid sometin' dat ain't dere. I'se jist oveh-tiah'd, is all.  
  
_

It was a highly comforting conclusion. So, like most comforting conclusions, it was quickly shattered, by a repeat of the sound that she had just "imagined".

A voice...a low, raspy voice from somewhere behind her, somewhere in the shadows.

Two syllables were all it seemed to have to say...it was now repeating them a third time.

They were _not _"Brooklyn".

They were two syllables which made up a name that Secret hadn't heard in eight years. At least, not applied to her.

She wanted to turn around, to look behind her. She wanted even more to run, to close the few feet between her and the lodging house, to climb the steps and barricade herself behind the safety of its sturdy door, and claim the warmth and security of her own bunk.

Instead, she stood frozen like a statue.

The name was spoken one last time, but loudly now, forcefully, with conviction, triumph. The voice had grown closer, she noted. It was now directly behind her. She was fully aware of this, and of what it meant, and of what she should do. But it wasn't until the steely fingers closed around her wrist that she managed to move. Yanking free, Secret sprinted down the street, stumbled up the steps of the lodging house, and burst in through the door, slamming it behind her and firmly fastening the latch and bolt.

For a few moments, she simply leaned against the door, attempting to correct her breathing pattern, aware that her face was probably as pale as Flick's at the moment. Then, turning to eye the door, she resumed her questionable new habit of speaking aloud without an audience.

"No," she declared matter-of-factly. "Y'know what? No. Dat did not happen. Uh-uh. I refuse ta believe dat happened. It'd be really, _really _convenient at dis particula time ta decide dat what jist happened did not happen."  
Slightly calmed by this decision, the girl proceeded into the

bunkroom, careful to monitor every movement so as to make the minimal amount of noise. Though there was no clock in the room, she estimated the time to be around 2:30 A.M. After a quick glance around her to make sure everyone else was still safely asleep, Secret collapsed once again on her blissfully inviting bunk.

Upon closing her eyes for the second time that night, she discovered just how much good her little adventure had done. Now her mind was crowded not only with images of Brooklyn, but with many other memories as well, pulled out of a far more distant past.

One phrase in particular stood out in her mind.

_"My poor liddle __Charlotte__...an' I got nuttin' ta leave ya. I'd leave ya da woild if I could, but I got nuttin'...nuttin' at all."  
  
_

"Oh, ya left me sometin' a'right, Mama," Secret whispered grimly. "I'se receivin' yer legacy now, a'right, in moah ways den one."


	5. Chapter Five

**September 22, 1899****, **6:00 A.M.******  
**Manhattan********

"Up, up, up, _up!!_ No time ta waste! No one's payin' ya ta lie in bed all day!"

            At Kloppman's brutal tirade, Secret popped up like a jack-in-the-box, fully awake and fully horrified.

            _Please tell me dat was a dream. Please, **please** tell me dat I din't really do sometin' so hopelessly an' completely idiotic..._

Then she looked down at herself and realized that she was still wearing her wrumpled blue dress, having never changed back into her nightgown after arriving home last night.

            _Da**.___

Meanwhile, Kloppman was busy with some of the more reluctant risers. Jack was muttering incoherently, Skittery protesting despite the old man's light smacks. And Flick, of course, hadn't so much as stirred. Noting this, Secret glanced at Race's bunk; sure enough, he was still frantically searching for his cigar. Most likely, Snipeshooter had stolen it again, and a fight would ensue. While Racetrack didn't have much of a temper, his first cigar of the day was the equivalent of most people's morning coffee.

            "Ya gonna let poor Flick be late again 'cause ya can't get yer precious smoke?" Secret demanded, before hurrying to the washroom so as to claim it before any of the boys.

            Shooting Snipeshooter a murderous look (Snipes responded with a smart-aleck grin and a wave of the half-smoked cigar), Race reluctantly hauled himself up the ladder to Flick's bunk. 

"Da presses are rollin', sunshine," he informed the slumbering newsgirl, tugging on a red lock that had flopped across her face.

            The answer consisted of a mournful groan, a halfhearted swipe, and the words, "If I heah one moah poyson call me 'sunshine' dis week, deyre gonna die." Satisfied that she was awake, Race hopped to the floor to face Kid Blink, whose ever-present grin was in place.

            "'Memba when she useta deck ya ev'ry mornin' fer doin' dat?"

            "Ah, da good old days," Race replied sarcastically, immediately turning to charge at Snipeshooter, only to have Blink restrain him. Snipes made a quick exit, and Race, shaking his head in disgust, followed Blink to the washroom door, where they joined Mush in waiting for Secret to emerge.

            For some reason, despite the tribulations of the previous night, everyone seemed to be unusually chipper this morning. Well, almost everyone. On the way to the distribution center, Race and Flick chattered ceaselessly about the race they were planning to attend that night. They argued so loudly and heatedly about which horse to bet on, that anyone who hadn't known them as well as their fellow Manhattan newsies did would have assumed they really were furious with each other. Meanwhile, Mush was raving with equal passion about his girl, ignoring the fact that Blink was teasing him mercilessly instead of listening politely. It all ended in Race pulling out his pocket watch to check the time, Flick grabbing it and taking off through the crowd, and all three of the boys ganging up on her to reclaim it.

            "D'ya rememba," Jack asked, turning to David, who had joined up with the lodging-house newsies on Broome Street, "when we only had _t'ree Musketeers?"_

            "I think I remember," Dave laughed, watching the antics around him affectionately. "But now it seems like there have always been five."

            Except the fifth Musketeer was refraining from Musketeer-like behavior on this particular morning. Secret was hanging back, trailing behind all the others. So far, no one had taken notice of her wrumpled dress, or, more significantly, the distant, troubled look in her eyes. Even her four best friends hadn't caught on yet; being the quietest and most reserved member of the little gang, they were used to her sitting out many of their more boisterous activities: rowdy games, chases, and mock-fights. Therefore, her doing so on this occasion gave them no cause for worry.

Only Flick had noticed anything slightly "off" about Secret, something not quite right; in the way she moved, the way her eyes darted cautiously from side to side, and the way she seemed sort of faded, not quite connecting with her surroundings. _I oughta find out about it...but what can I do? Ask 'er? _That was a joke. Getting information out of Secret was like pulling teeth. Teeth that were cemented in place. _Ah well...she's Secret. God knows dat goil can take care o' ha'self. An' if fer some reason she can't, she'll tell me. She's got enough sense ta know when she's in oveh her head. _Still, Flick couldn't resist an anxious glance toward the back of the crowd. _Still...I wish I could figuah out what it's got ta do wit _Brooklyn___._

"How many?"

            Flick jumped; she'd been so absorbed in her thoughts that she hadn't even noticed when she joined the line at the distribution center, nor when each of the newsies in front of her bought his papes.

            "Forty," she replied, slapping down two dimes in front of Mr. Trotwood. The old man raised his eyebrows, smiling teasingly.

            "Sellin' been bad lately?"

            Flick mock-glared in reply. "Fer yer infamation, Trout, I'se got a race ta go to t'night. I wouldn't wanna risk not bein' sold out in time, since a friend o' mine has got a hot tip an' all..." Even Flick couldn't manage to keep her glare in place at those words; it dissolved into a snicker.

            "Hey!" called an indignant voice from the ground, its source hidden behind a newspaper. "It happens ta be from a very reliable source dis time!"

            Glancing dismissively in the direction of the voice, Flick turned back to Trout. "He pay fer 'is papes dis mornin'?"

            Mr. Trotwood grimaced. "Nope...said Apollo had a stone in 'is hoof at the last race...but apparently he's gonna pay me back for all the papes I've spotted him, after New Moon wins t'night..."

            This was met with raucous laughter from Flick, as well as Mush and Blink, who had flocked behind her with their bundles of papers. The redhead turned and knelt on the ground, batting aside the newspaper to reveal a small red-faced Italian.

            "My point," she declared archly, "is made."

            At that point, Secret joined the group, having just bought her papes, and the five partners took off down the street for another morning of selling. Four of them were still teasing and fooling around. The silence of the fifth once again went unnoticed.

            Finally, a few streets away from the distribution center, Secret spoke up for the first time that morning.

            "Y'know, guys, while jokes an' games can be a real barrel o' laughs an' all dat, sellin' a few papes now an' den wouldn't hoit."

            Race and Flick exchanged relieved smiles; whatever was wrong with Secret, it seemed to have damaged neither her logic nor her sarcasm.

            "A'right," Blink agreed amiably enough, "let's see what dey've got fer us t'day."

            He took advantage of a nearby tree as a leaning post, and casually opened his paper, the others watching him expectantly. Blink took one look at the front page and groaned.

            "What?" Mush's eyes widened. "Not Queens _again?"_

"Da one an' only," Blink replied grimly. "Geez, ya'd t'ink afta a _month,_ at least..."

            "It's tough ta recoveh from gettin' soaked dat bad," Secret observed with an acid glance at Flick, who flared.

            "'Scuse me, but in case youse f'gotten, da reason I soaked da Queens newsies was dat you were all busy bein' beaten ta bloody pulps--"

            "No one's blamin' ya fer winnin' da fight, Flick," Race quickly assured her.

            "Yeah, Queens jist happens ta be real lousy at reorganizin'," Blink added, smirking. "Dis long an' dey still ain't got a new leadeh."

            "Jist how many newsies left afta dat fight?" Race wondered.

            "Don't know any exact numbas," Blink replied, "but a whole lot, I hoid. Crow an' 'is gang all split up, goin' off ta diff'rent boroughs wheah dey hoped da sellin'...an' da fightas...was betta den Queens."

            "An' da ones dat are left 'ave been squabblin' oveh da position eveh since," Race finished grimly. "Mind ya, all dose pickpockets ain't helpin' any."

            "How many in dis edition?" Flick demanded.

            "Six," Mush answered promptly, flipping through one of his own papes. "An' dat's jist da scabs, o' course, da big shots dat reported it ta da bulls. Da grapevine says da newsies an' fact'ry kids've been gettin' hit twice as hard. Da Queens boys are jist in complete crisis mode."

            "'Scuse me."

            After her extensive silence, Secret's statement caused her four friends to jump. She snickered at this reaction. "Sorry ta startle youse...I was jist wonderin' if we was gonna discuss da headlines all mornin', or actually go out an' hawk 'em. An' keep in mind dat only one o' dose choices involves profit."

            "Ya can always count on Secret," Flick remarked proudly. "C'mon, kids, let's listen ta our voice o' reason."

            Flick's use of the term "kids" was disregarded even by Mush and Blink, who had two years on her, out of respect for her fighting ability. The boys simply obeyed the girls meekly, and the five took off down the street, hawking outrageous headlines that made it sound as if all of Queens had been massacred since the previous evening's edition.

"So den I decided ta open da window, an' let 'im heah jist how many people was out dere shoutin' at 'im. An' right away he cova'd 'is eahs an' started beggin' me ta close it. 'Shut da window! Shut da window!' Youse all shoulda hoid 'im...da mighty Pulitzah, beggin' fer moicy!"

            "E'zactly how many times has 'e told dis story, jist since me an' Secret joined?" Flick wondered aloud.

            "Fourteen," was the prompt reply from Skittery.

            "And a half," Dave modified, smiling. "There was the time he got interrupted when my sister showed up at Tibby's to surprise him."

            "Yeah," Snaps agreed thoughtfully, "I seem ta recall he din't do much tawkin' afta dat...too busy takin' Sarah outside fer a 'breath o' fresh air'..."

            "Since when has ev'ry lunch toined into a game o' Tortua-da-leadeh?" Jack demanded, grinning tolerantly at the laughing boys around him and saving a glare for Flick.

            "Since dis lady started comin' ta Tibby's," Race replied, grinning and throwing an arm around Flick.

            "Lady, is it?" Blink eyed Flick incredulously. Her response was to smack him...rather harder than she was normally accustomed to hitting her friends, but no one noticed this except Blink.

            "I was merely pointin' out," the redhead informed the table at large, "dat, seein' as most o' us has already memorized ev'ry detail o' da strike, dere might be interest in some odda topic fer a change."

            "Yeah?" Cowboy snapped, furious at this sacrilege against his moment of glory. "Well, what topic would you suggest, Flick?"

            Flick smiled sweetly at the table full of newsies. "How was da sellin' dis mornin'?"

            She was answered with complete silence. Thirty-three pairs of eyes stared incredulously at her...thirty-two pairs of eyebrows raised. Flick raised hers right back.

            "What? Loaded question?"

            "No," Bumlets explained. "Dat's da problem. It's much too innocent a question fer you. We's waitin' ta find out da devious motive behind it."

            At this, Flick assumed an expression that served as a laughably poor imitation of hurt. "Aw, Bums, I can't believe ya'd say such a t'ing...an' us bein' such good pals...an' you havin' sold five extra papes dis mornin'...I really t'ink ya oughta make it up ta me...spot me sometin' fer da race t'night?"

            Groans echoed off the walls of the small restaurant.

            "We shoulda known when dey showed up wit Race dat one o' dem would toin out ta be as bad as him," mourned Blink.  
            "Hey, it ain't like I brought 'em back on poipose!" Race reminded his friend indignantly. "Anyway, it was Flick's idea ta go ta dat race in August...ain't my fault she got obsessed..."  
            _"A-hem."   
            At this impatient signal, everyone immediately turned toward Flick; ignoring the dragon was unwise._

            "In case youse all f'got, I did ask fer a loan a minute ago..." She smiled her sweetest smile, which was about as angelic as a demon's, as harmless as...well, a dragon's.

            These words were followed by a nervous pause, before Pie Eater rolled his eyes and plunged a hand into his pocket, muttering, "I don't even need ta say how much I'se gonna regret dis..."

            "I love ya, Pie," Flick remarked happily, plucking a couple coins from his hand. The statement was answered by incredulous snorts from Pie Eater and, quite randomly, Racetrack.

            "Well, now dat we got dat all woiked out," Jack spoke up sarcastically, "_I got a question fer all o' youse. Can anyone afford ta skip de evenin' edition t'day?"_

            The newsies exchanged puzzled glances, a few answering with nods or shakes of the head, most with shrugs. "Why?" Blink asked curiously.

            "'Cause," Cowboy replied, raising his eyebrows, "we got an invitation ta Brooklyn."

            A sudden fit of coughs erupted from the corner. Secret seemed to be choking on a piece of knockwurst. Mush turned to her in alarm.

            "Ya okay?" Without waiting for an answer, he gave her a helpful pound on the back that nearly sent the small girl flying out of her chair.

            Once she'd managed to regain her rightful seating position, cough into her napkin several times, and wipe a sleeve across her watery eyes, Secret turned a very sarcastic face on Mush.

            "T'anks, dat was real helpful...jist t'ink o' lettin' me know next time ya try ta kill me; I could say my goodbyes an' ev'rytin'..."

            Mush blushed furiously, but Secret barely allowed herself a second for guilt before whirling toward Jack, and manufacturing a rather pathetic excuse for a casual smile. "Ya were sayin'?"

            Jack's eyebrows rose, if possible, even higher, and Secret could feel Flick's shrewd eyes on her; but to her relief, no one commented. After a moment, Jack resumed his explanation.

            "Seems like Spot's been invitin' a lot o' newsies ta Brooklyn lately...tryin' ta keep on good toims wit all da boroughs, I guess. 'Cept Queens, o' course, dat'd be kinda pointless dese days." The corner of his mouth quirked. "I hoid dere was a big pokah game a couple nights back, an' sometin' goin' on las' night, too..."

            "Like a wild party dat went past one in da mornin'?"

As a sea of eyes swiveled toward her, Secret wondered what in God's name had possessed her to say that.

            "Okay..." Cowboy stated blankly. "So now we's got a psychic among us?"

            "Ya feelin' a'right, Secret?" Blink asked with real concern in his voice. "Yer actin' real strange. Ya wanna go back ta da lodgin' house an' rest or sometin'?"

            "No, I'se fine!" Secret glared defiantly into the sea of eyes, then quickly tried to replace the glare with an expression of serene innocence. "It was jist a guess, is all..."

            Jack blinked. "Okay...well, it was a real accurate guess..." Reluctantly, he resumed his previous thought. "So, who's comin'?"

            Nervous glances flashed around the table. Refusing an invitation from Spot Conlon...well, you just didn't do it. But many of the Manhattan boys had still never been to Brooklyn, even since it became their strongest ally after the strike. Others, such as Boots, had been only once or twice, and those occasions had left a lasting impression.

            The first to volunteer were Mush and Blink, who had visited the borough many times, and regarded Spot as a sixteen-year-old newsie leader, not some kind of dreaded monster from horror stories. Eventually, acceptances were also procured from Skittery, Itey, and Bumlets. David had already agreed to come. That made seven boys, a good-sized visiting party.

Several minutes passed. The newsies finished eating amid their usual chitchat and gossip, and, in ones and twos and small groups, left the table and headed out of the restaurant. Only Jack, David, Flick, and the Musketeers remained when Secret spoke quite abruptly, interrupting several miniature conversations. She said three words that would trigger more changes and chain reactions than she could have possibly imagined at the time.

            "I'll come too."

            Since the statement came out of nowhere, it took everyone a few seconds to figure out what she was talking about. When they did, there was a five-way chorus of, "No ya won't!" Even Dave looked dubious.

            "Um, Secret...have you by any chance forgotten what you did last time we went to Brooklyn?"

            With difficulty, Secret suppressed a sarcastic reply, which would have run something along the lines of, _Shoah, Davey, I'se f'gotten all 'bout it. Dat's why it haunts my ev'ry wakin' moment. Instead she asked, "Ya really t'ink Spot's still mad 'bout dat?"_

            All six of the other newsies present exchanged rolled eyes.

            "Secret," Flick reminded her friend patiently. "Dis's Spot Conlon. He holds grudges till doomsday. He's still got it in fer _me fer sometin' I din't even do!"_

            "I know ya like Brooklyn, Secret," Mush added sympathetically, "but Flick's right. If two yeahs wasn't enough time ta cool 'is tempa as far as she's concoined, I doubt a month is enough fer 'im ta f'give ya fer pushin' 'im in da rivah."

             "Am I _neveh_ gonna heah de end o' dat?" the girl groaned in exasperation. Meanwhile, another part of her mine was screaming, _Am I neveh gonna regain my sanity!? T'ank God dere's no way dey'll let me go ta Brooklyn, 'cause it seems dis alta ego o' mine is suicidal on top o' ev'rytin' else. When did I even develop an alta ego!?_

Stupid question. She knew when.

            "Ya may as well accept it." It was Race who was speaking now, and Secret was starting to regret those scolding sessions she'd been organizing for Flick; the tables had apparently turned. "Yer among da banished now," Race was saying, "jist like Flick an' me."

            By now, Secret was so frustrated, with herself and with her friends, that Racetrack's words didn't even really register. All she could see in her mind, clear as day, was that blasted face. All she could think, despite every desperate effort to quell such thoughts, was how close she was to being able to see it again.

            "I'se still got Mulberry's clothes," she suggested hopefully, getting desperate.  
            "We can take 'em back ta her," Blink volunteered.

            "Quit tryin' ta t'ink up excuses," Jack advised. "Ya know poifectly well ya can't..." But his voice trailed off, and to everyone's surprise, he let out what sounded suspiciously like a sigh of resignation.

            "What?" Mush asked uneasily. "Ya ain't actually gonna let 'er go, are ya? Ya know Spot'll kill 'er..."

            "Well, dat's da t'ing." Jack bit his lip and turned to Secret. "A'right. If ya really wanna go dat much, ya may as well know. I din't wanna tell ya, 'cause I din't t'ink it was da kinda t'ing ya'd wanna heah...but apparently I judged wrong, so..." He shrugged offhandly. "Spot kinda requested dat ya come."

            Time ground to a halt. Secret gaped.

            "He...he _what!?"___

In an instant, she was being sucked into a whirlpool of emotion, drowning in a funnel of amazement, confusion, elation, anger, and terror.

            But she wasn't the one known for strong reactions.

            "Ya...but...he...he..." Flick stuttered in horror. "He can't o'...ya mean..." Finally, she managed to get her point across in one short, lucid sentence. "Ya ain't goin'!"

            On this point, however, if on no other, Secret was certain.

            "Yeah, I am."

            "No, ya _ain't!  Ya have no idea what 'e wants ya fer, an' it's nuttin' good, I'll promise ya dat. If ya went an' ya jist got soaked, I'd consida ya lucky. Dis...dis's..." Flick rattled off a few adjectives that most girls her age had never even heard, and followed them with, "...Spot Conlon, fer cryin' out loud."_

            As Flick finished her speech, Secret blanched. Her eyes flashed even brighter than usual. And when she responded, her voice was ice.

            "Oh, c'mon, Flick!  Ya don't hafta be so jealous an' bitta jist 'cause Spot wants ta see me, an' you toined 'im off two yeahs ago wit ya da** tempa."

Secret's mouth...the mouth that those words had just left...dropped open. Slowly, her hand crept up to cover it, as if to make sure it was really her own.

            Flick gasped.

            In a transformation that any who knew Flick had witnessed at some point, the blood drained from the rest of her face and rushed to her cheeks, turning them into flames. Her eyes, a pleasantly soft blue minutes before, deepened a whole range of shades. She was on her feet in a moment...and, for the space of about half a second, something came very close to happening that had never happened before.

            Flick pulled her hand back a millimeter away from slapping Secret across the face.

            Instead, she turned on her heel and started to stalk past the table. When she reached Racetrack's chair, she grabbed his hand and dragged him out of it as an afterthought, then kept right on walking. Race gulped and glanced back at the others with an apologetic shrug before he and Flick vanished out the door.

No one said anything. For an indefinite stretch of time, Secret's now tear-filled eyes stared back at the four wide pairs that were regarding her as if she'd become a complete stranger. Finally, she too rose and left the restaurant.

            Secret, however, didn't have Flick's reputation for being extremely dangerous when angry. All four remaining boys went after her.

"She din't mean it, y'know."

            Race made this feeble attempt at comforting Flick while the two of them made their way down the street, apparently toward Central Park. Flick still hadn't let go of his hand, though this didn't particularly bother him; at least she wasn't practically snapping it off, as she had done on one occasion.

            "Yeah? Den what da he** did she mean?"

            _She don't even sound mad anymoah, _Race observed. _Jist da woids...not 'er voice. She was real mad at foist, but now it seems like she's moah...well, hoit._

Which made sense, of course; who wouldn't be hurt after her best friend said something like that to her?

            What's more, this wasn't just any best friend...it was _Secret._ Secret, who had never said anything so harsh to Flick before. Who, as far as Race knew, had never said anything truly harsh to _anyone before._

            Secret, who had always been known as..._quiet and sensible?_

"I jist can't believe she'd...I...got no idea wheah dat came from. I mean, shoah, she's been actin' kinda strange lately, but..."

            They were still walking, and Flick was presumably talking to Race, but she wasn't looking at him. He was growing rather concerned about the state she was in. "It was stupid, anyway, what she said," he pointed out. "I mean, dat yer jealous o' her 'cause Spot wants ta see 'er."

            Flick said nothing.

            "What?" Race glanced curiously at her, but her face was still turned away. His hand went to his pocket for a cigar, as it automatically did whenever he was nervous. He shrugged very casually. "Unless, o' course, it's true--"

            _"Race!"__  _

            Okay, that had done the trick; she definitely wasn't indifferent anymore. She dropped his hand and spun toward him with a ferocious glare. **[Really random author's note: At first I accidentally typed 'a ferocious flare'...and it made me laugh a lot :-D]**

            "Ya idiot! Ya scab! Dat's sick, ya know dat? Dat is seriously, deeply, horribly sick. I hate dat kid...hate 'im...hate 'im..._hate _'im...dat blasted liddle liah's moah full o' himself den Cowboy..."

            Race arched an eyebrow. She really did have to hate Spot, if she considered him worse than Jack. "A'right, a'right, ya do realize I was kiddin'--"

            Flick didn't even seem to hear him. After bringing Cowboy's name into her rant, she could hardly let it go without stringing on a few insults. "Not dat Kelly's much betta, mind ya, he neveh shoulda told Secret dat Spot wanted 'er ta come t'night...God, I can't believe he's lettin' 'er go...you was right, Race, it's as bad as _us showin' our faces in Brooklyn..."_

            And finally, to Flick's amazement and Racetrack's complete dismay, Flick allowed her mind a split second to rewind and realized what she had just said.

            "Us showin' our...Race!"

            She turned to him accusingly, just as the two of them, neither taking much notice, stepped over the grassy threshold of Central Park.

            "Yeah?" he replied innocently, lighting his cigar.

            "Ya told Secret we's banished from Brooklyn!"

            "Ah. Well...we are."

            _"I _am." She crossed her arms. "What's _yer track record wit Brooklyn?"_

            "Ah," Race repeated brilliantly, reddening.

            Flick seemed to be enjoying this. She perched on a conveniently located park bench, and Race resignedly perched beside her. "Well?" she demanded.

            Racetrack shrugged. "Well...it started wit a pokah game."

            The newsgirl snorted. "No kiddin'? An' heah I t'ought ya got in a fight wit Spot oveh some goil."

            "Shuddup, Flick," Race suggested peevishly.

            She declined the invitation. "So what happened?"

            "Basically, it started wit a pokah game an' ended wit me gettin' two black eyes, a few cracked ribs, a broken arm, an' God only knows what else, 'cause I'se fairly coitain I blacked out at some point."

            Flick just stared at him for a few seconds after this explanation. He stared back with an expression that read, _Ya__ happy?_

She certainly wasn't happy, however. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember ever seeing her eyes that dark before, except the couple absolutely traumatic occasions when they'd turned black.

            "Idiot," she murmured, fire in her voice.

            "Me or him?" Race questioned, grinning slightly. Flick gave a small grin in response.

            "Both o' youse, but I meant him." She frowned. "Ya told me da beginnin' an' de end...so what went on in da middle?"

            "As ya useta be so fond o' sayin', take a guess."

            "Ya beat 'im at pokah an' 'e t'ought ya cheated."

            "Good guess."

            "Well, didja?"

            "Flick!" Race actually glared, which was a funny sight; his baby face was not exactly made for glaring. "Gimme some credit. It was _Brooklyn__. I ain't __dat stupid."_

            Flick shook her head slowly, eyes straying to some obscure point in the distance. "I jist don't b'lieve it. What da he** is Conlon's issue wit losin' at pokah? An _wheah_ did 'e get da notion dat no one can do it honestly!? He ain't even dat good!" She pondered for a moment. "So you an' me an' Secret all have bad credit wit Brooklyn...an' Secret's de only one dat actually did anytin'! _An'_ she's de only one he's supposedly f'given." An enormous amount of sarcasm went into that last word. "Anyway, whateveh 'e's got in store fer her t'night, he's already done 'is part at corruptin' 'er." Without warning, she smashed her fist onto the bench so hard that Race winced; whether for her fist or the bench, he couldn't quite say.

            "I _hate dat kid," she stated for about the tenth time that day._

            "Dat makes two o' us." With another philosophical shrug, Race stood up and gathered his papers. "C'mon now, we best get dese sold if we wanna make da race t'night."

            Flick followed his example distractedly. "Race," she commented frankly, "Spot Conlon's spent 'is life beggin' ta be soaked."

            "Ya t'ink ya could take 'im?" Racetrack asked with equal frankness, adjusting his cigar and working out an improvement on a headline.

            Flick answered with startling honesty.

            "I doubt it. Spot's got da most ovehsized ego in da city, but if dere's one t'ing 'e don't exaggerate, it's 'is fightin' skills."

            "Yer tellin' _me."  Race chose not to drift back into the realm of that painful memory._

            "Yeah...so, if it's truth ya want, I don't t'ink I could soak 'im." Her next words were both grim and deeply wistful. "But God, would I love ta try."


	6. Chapter Six

**Shout Outs:**

**My most faithful NML feedback-senders: ****Eire****, Tree, ****Sparks****, and RunAway**

**My Insane Random Role Play Sisters, for giving me all the incentive I needed: Cocky, Let, Poker, Spy, Tag, and RunAway and Tree again**

**And my most faithful fanfiction.net reviewer, StormShadow**

**Here, then, is the long-promised chapter, and although I have to study for midterms all weekend, I'm still fairly optimistic about getting another one up soon. **

Somewhere they're speaking  
It's already coming in  
Oh, and it's rising at the back of your mind  
You never could get it  
Unless you were fed it  
And now you're here and you don't know why.  
-Everything You Want, by Vertical Horizon  
  
The Manhattan visiting party stood close together in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge.

No one had agreed to pause at this point; yet every newsie had stopped dead upon reaching it. There was just something about crossing the Brooklyn Bridge that forced you to hesitate for a few moments...to take time to think. Think about things like the sheer size of the bridge, and the awesome beauty of the river, and whether you were entirely certain your sanity was intact. After all, you were going to Brooklyn.

And to Spot Conlon.

Girls had stood in the middle of this bridge and planned their weddings. Other kids had stood here...rival newsies from other boroughs, or ragged runaways with nowhere else to go, or even Brooklyn newsies who had failed at some task or another...and planned their funerals.

Secret planned the death of her alter ego.

After she had run off from Tibby's, the boys had soon caught up to her and demanded explanations. Blink had been understandably horrified and outraged. Jack had merely appeared shocked; he couldn't quite find it in him to be angry at an insult to Flick, even the poignant and cruel one that Secret...well, Secret's alter ego...had chosen. It was Mush and David's attitudes that had hurt Secret the most. Neither angry, nor triumphant at the sleight to Flick, both had seemed deeply bewildered...and deeply worried about her.

Unfortunately for them, one aspect of her normal personality seemed to have returned. She kept her mouth firmly shut, except to apologize repeatedly for what she'd said, and to express fervent wishes to find Flick. While the others hadn't considered this an especially bright idea, they had agreed to help her look. When there was no sign of either Flick or Race in any of the usual newsie haunts, the search party had split up and gone their separate ways; Jack with Dave, and Secret with Mush and Blink. And now, now that they had all finished selling their papers, and met up with Skitts and Itey and Bumlets, and gathered in the middle of the bridge, Secret dimly realized that she was still going through with it. She was actually going to Brooklyn.

There was no turning back.

Upon arriving on the other side of the bridge, the guests were greeted with the typical Brooklyn scene: chaos. As usual, the docks and river were teeming with a huge, noisy, completely unruly gang of boys. Here and there, mixed in with their male colleagues, the Manhattan newsies also occasionally caught sight of a girl. Since the newsgirls were dressed in boys' clothes for swimming purposes, it was a difficult to pick them out of the crowd.

Secret glanced at the shirt and pants cradled in her arms, and wondered if Mulberry would let her wear them again. Under normal circumstances, she would have borrowed clothes from Flick, but current circumstances were not exactly normal. She shuddered again at the memory of those terrible words that had come out of her fickle mouth, and tried to block them out for the time being.

"Secret!"

Thank goodness: a diversion. And, speak of the devil, it was none other than the cheerful caramel-haired Mulberry, who greeted Secret with a warm smile and a quick spitshake. "Ya came," she observed shrewdly. She didn't look surprised. For some reason, this bothered Secret quite a bit.

Meanwhile, her companions were being greeted as well, the natives swarming around with grins and nods and spitshakes and slaps on the back, already firing questions, jokes, and snippets of news and gossip a mile a minute. Brooklynites were talkers as well as fighters.

Taking advantage of this distraction, Mulberry took the opportunity to drag Secret off to the lodging house. "Ya need ta get changed," she pointed out as they entered the girls' bunkroom through the door on the left.

It quickly became clear, however, that letting Secret change into river-appropriate clothes was just an excuse. Mulberry was concerned about other matters, and she didn't beat around the bush. She'd barely taken a seat on the edge of her bunk before she had addressed her main point of interest.

"Ya fallen fer 'im, den?"

After gaping at the other girl for several embarassing seconds, Secret stalled for time by stripping off her dress and donning the clothes that still made her feel so strange and self-conscious. Mulberry waited patiently but expectantly.

Finally, Secret finished dressing and turned to the Brooklyn newsgirl.

"No," she replied firmly.

Mulberry's eyes bored into her. "Still in da denial stage?"

Helpless frustration and anger showed on Secret's face...when had her face started showing anything? When had she become incapable of keeping it perfectly expressionless, which she had been able to do for _fifteen years?_

"I said no an' I meant it," she insisted coldly. "I came heah 'cause I like Brooklyn. It's got nuttin' ta do wit..."

Her tongue froze, curled around the name like a dragon curled around a treasure chest.

" I see," Mulberry murmured, sliding off her bunk and starting toward the door. She didn't seem offended by Secret's tone. Indeed, she responded to it with something that almost sounded like...pity. "I see," she repeated softly over her shoulder, as she opened the bunkroom door and stepped out into the lobby. "It's got nuttin' ta do wit da one whose name ya can't say."

When she caught up to Mulberry on the docks, Secret found her with two other girls. She recognized one of them, Bat, from her last visit. The other was unfamiliar to her, a striking Hispanic girl about her age and maybe an inch taller. That one was currently biting her lip, eyes narrowed as if in silent disapproval. Bat was shaking her head as Mulberry, face earnest, spoke rapidly to her. When Secret arrived on the scene, she immediately fell silent. The other two newsgirls' expressions vanished from their faces like chalk wiped off a blackboard.

_ Oh, very subtle._

Suppressing a snort, Secret forced her face into something resembling a smile. "Hey," she greeted lightly.

Mulberry forced a smile in return, and nodded. Bat responded with a carefully neutral and reserved, "Heya." Only the third girl's greeting seemed sincere.

_ "Hola!"_ she exclaimed, rocking back on her heels as if she couldn't bear to stay still for long. _"Me llamo_ Snake Eyes. Don't pay attention to these _chicas_, they're not so bad once you get to know them." She flashed a smile that caused her brown eyes to sparkle and her whole face to light up. Secret had to smile back.

"Um...what'd she jist say ta me?" she asked Bat and Mulberry blankly.

Mulberry giggled. Bat rolled her eyes, smiling tolerantly. "She said hey, an' told ya her name's Snake Eyes, an' she called us _chicas,_ which she says means 'goils' but I'se startin' ta suspect it's really an insult."

"It is not!" Snake Eyes exclaimed indignantly. "It means 'girls', nothin' more, a perfectly good everyday word..."

"See, dat's how ya get 'er ta speak English," Mulberry spoke up with a grin.

Secret was beginning to relax. This peculiar miracle called Snake Eyes seemed to have broken the ice. The Brooklyn girls were becoming the friendly people she remembered, and somehow, things would work out for the best.

Then she turned around to face the edge of the dock, with a vague idea of going swimming, and felt the bottom plunge out of her world.

Gold hair, blue eyes, red suspenders, slingshot and gold-topped cane, and that expression, that expression like he owned the world, and knew the streets, and felt nothing, and towered over everything, and saw into your soul...

Secret's heart stopped beating. Her world stopped spinning. Her face paled, her heart twisted into a painful knot, goosebumps rose on her arms. She wanted to turn and run, to hide, to scream, and her heart, which wasn't beating anymore, was at the same time hammering in her ears and pounding blood through her veins. She felt so filled up with emotion that she was overflowing. She felt as hot as the sun and as cold as ice. She felt like she was going to die. Like she had just stepped off the edge of a precipice and slowly begun to fall...or plunged into the ocean and begun to sink beneath the surface.  
Spot Conlon crossed his arms and smirked. He spoke, two simple words, an exact echo of those words Mulberry had said to Secret when she'd arrived.

"Ya came."

..................

The Sheepshead Races were crowded tonight. There was rarely a night when they were not. Summer or winter, rain or shine, fans never failed to turn out in alarming numbers to bet on their favorite horses, and to see them run.

Race and Flick hurried to place their own bets. Race chose a stallion named Comet, with tremendous odds against him, as was Racetrack's custom. Flick decided on a mare called Twilight Prayer, claiming she liked the name. Flick's choices had an interesting tendency to make no sense.

Once that was taken care of, the two newsies headed to their usual box, Flick grumbling good-naturedly about the inadequacy of Pie Eater's "loan" while Race chewed on his cigar and inserted such absurd remarks that she finally gave up her would-be complaints and succumbed to laughter.

Twilight was falling, the world acquiring its surreal ice-blue tint that normally marked the start of a race. It was cold, Flick observed. Quite cold, actually. Unusually so for a September evening. She shivered and pulled her navy-blue vest closer around her, leaning back in the box and glancing at Race. The casual glance became a startled one when she found his gaze already fastened directly on her. Both of then quickly looked away.

Race watched his last cigar crumble to ash and didn't light another one. He was trying to concentrate on the horses. Or rather, he was trying not to concentrate on his companion.

It was crazy, he knew, but it always seemed to him as if something strange happened to Flick at times like these. He didn't know if it was the racetracks, or the twilight, or the combination of both. That last possibility seemed most likely...the gentle tones of dusk blending with the relaxed joy that Flick felt at the races. It transformed the combination of her snow-white skin, brilliant red hair, and expressive sky-blue eyes into something almost like a fiery angel. Not beautiful, exactly; no matter what the situation, nothing that could accurately be called beauty ever seemed to touch Flick; but it did change her, and dramatically. It made her look stronger than ever, and purer, and brighter...a celestial dragon, perhaps. And the transformation made Race feel strange. It wasn't that it reminded him how much he cared about Flick; he knew that perfectly well, and needed no reminder. After only a month, he already felt closer to her than to either Secret or even Mush and Blink, who had been his best friends for years. But the way she looked now made him feel something completely different...not entirely separate from affection and friendship, but much more powerful, almost overwhelming. It was something he had never felt before, and it scared him.

Twilight Prayer was giving Black Dream and Golden Dawn a good run for their money. Racetrack scowled and tried to remember if Flick had taken the odds on third.

The wind picked up, lifting Flick's hair and swirling it in a tangle of flames around her shoulders. It also knocked Race's hat down over one ear. Actually, it knocked his hat down before it started playing with Flick's hair. Race vaguely wondered why he noticed the events in the opposite order from their occurrence.

It is a strange time, twilight. A time for events that couldn't happen at any time. A time for the opening of doorways, and gateways, and the discovery of paths that are normally hidden by the glare of daylight or shrouded in the dark cloak of night. It is a time for things that are random, and strange, and have meaning only until blue is swallowed by black, and day surrenders to night, losing its brief but valiant battle.

"Race," Flick pointed out with laughter in her voice, "ya jist lost sixty cents."

With a start, Race was astonished to realize that the race was over. Black Dream was being named the victor, with Golden Dawn as runner-up, and Twilight Prayer in third place.

"Didja take da odds on--"

"Jist foist an' second, 'memba?" The amusement of Flick's tone increased. "Ya ain't really awake t'night, huh, Race?"

"It ain't night yet," he found himself pointing out automatically. Flick gave him a strange look.

"Ri-ight...well, anyway...ya wanna come back an' lose some moah money, say, Friday?"

_ "Saro li,"_ Racetrack murmured, still not taking his eyes off the horses as their jockeys led them off the track in the direction of the stables.

A second later, he realized what he'd just said, and turned back toward Flick to find her goggling at him. "Wha...what'd ya jist say?" she demanded blankly.

"Er..." Race smiled sheepishly. "'I'll be dere'?"

Flick continued to stare as if he'd grown some extra ears. "Did you jist speak Italian?"

He wondered how she could recognize it. Well, she had spent a lot of time on the streets; she could probably recognize several languages. "Yeah," he admitted.

"Ya speak Italian!" She made the proclamation sound like the greatest discovery since sliced bread. "Why did I neveh know ya speak Italian?"

"It neveh came up?" Race suggested, grinning at her excitement over the simple fact. "Didja even know I am Italian?"

She considered this. "Ya look it...I t'ought ya was when I foist saw ya...but yer name's Higgins!"

"Half Irish," Race clarified. "On my fadda's side."

"Ah." Flick nodded, satisfied. "Well, dat's da bedda half."

Racetrack snickered. He had never even heard Flick refer to her own ethnicity before. He supposed she only did so when she felt it needed defending.

Twilight was rapidly fading now, replaced by a murky, starless night that was not unusual in New York. The race they had watched had been the last of the evening. Now the boxes were emptying, the crowds dispersing as everyone went their separate ways...some wearing triumphant grins and filling their pockets, bragging loudly about how they'd been sure of Black Dream since he was a colt; others downcast and dreary, slouching away with bowed heads, drooping shoulders, and empty pockets.

Race and Flick would be heading home too, back to the lodging house. They would probably play a game of poker and wait up for the Brooklyn visiting party, which would doubtless be back late. Then they would hear all about how the visit had gone. Secret would apologize to Flick and make up with her. Everyone would go to bed happy.

That was how things could have been. Race would later fervently believe that it was how they _should_ have been. He never did know what prompted the next words to leave his mouth. It was his mouth that was always getting him in trouble, of course...but those words were possibly the biggest mistake it ever made.  
"Flick," he suddenly began...so randomly, so unprovoked, so out of the blue..."why d'ya soak people so much?"

Flick blinked; it was a question he had asked her a couple times before, phrased in a couple different ways, but she certainly hadn't been expecting it at this particular moment. First a strange comment about the night, then a lapse into Italian, and now this...what was wrong with Race tonight, anyway?

However, they were both in such a good mood right now, and it was such a relief considering the events of the afternoon, that she tried to give Race a way out; to take the question lightly and try to dismiss it.

"Jist yer usual Irish tempa, I guess," she replied with a shrug and a carefree smile.

Race, however, was not so easily dissuaded. "Nice try, Flick. But I'se serious." He sighed, doing that direct-gaze thing again that Flick was coming to hate, since it usually seemed to go hand-in-hand with a lecture. "I know why ya was so touchy fer yer foist week or so. Ya was cut up oveh Song, an' I don't blame ya. An' I know ya don't go 'round beatin' up ya fellow newsies anymoah. But ya still snap at people all da time, an' won't listen ta a t'ing Jack says, an' knock out random people on da street if dey say a few t'ings ta ya dat ya don't like..."

"Race," Flick interrupted, cheeks starting to redden, "have ya eveh lectua'd Jack 'bout 'is tempa?"

Taken aback, Race cocked an eyebrow before answering.

"Uh...no."

"How 'bout Blink? He hardly eveh gets mad, but 'e goes ballistic when ya do strike a noive."

"Flick--"

"Skitts, den? He's always rantin' 'bout sometin'. Ya accuse me o' snappin' at people, but ya can't even say good mornin' ta dat boy widdout havin' ya head bitten off--"

"Flick, what's ya point?" Racetrack moaned, trying once again to remember _wh_y he had brought this up _now_.

"My point!?" Too dark to tell what shade her eyes were, but he could guess. He could see her leaning toward him in the dark, her voice slicing through the otherwise quiet night in the empty stands by the empty track. "My _point_ is, outta all da people I know dat've got bad tempas...out've all da people _anyone_ knows dat've got bad tempas...I'se de only one you, or anyone, eveh pestas 'bout it. Ya wanna know why I soak people? I wanna know why it boddas ya. It neveh seemed ta befoah."

It never had.

It had never bothered Racetrack at all until...well, he couldn't pin an exact date, but...well, maybe a week and a half, or two weeks ago. Even then, it had only started to nag at him a little. It had been much more recently...in fact, just the previous night...that he had admitted to himself that Flick's temper bothered him. And it was only now that he admitted it to her.

Now, after a beautiful twilight, of smiles and laughter and horses, teasing and crazy breezes, after a perfect twilight that was quickly turning into a perfect nightmare of a night.

"I dunno," Race heard himself mutter, suddenly as eager to dismiss the topic as Flick had been. But this time it was she who wouldn't let him off the hook. She'd gotten herself warmed up, and a fire won't burn out on short notice.

"Don'cha?" she whispered viciously. Poison fire voice now. Not good. "I can tell ya why, den. It's 'cause goils ain't allowed ta have tempas. Goils ain't allowed ta go around beatin' people half ta death. If guys do it, people respect 'em. If a goil does, people t'ink she's some kinda freak."

Race opened his mouth to deny what she was saying, to protest that such ideas had never crossed his mind. Then, for one of the few times in his life, he shut his mouth, and really considered Flick's words. In his mind, he ran through the guys who she had named. She was right; about most of them having tempers, and about the fact that neither he nor anyone else he knew of had ever chastised them for it. It was then that he first began to question himself about exactly why Flick's behavior had begun to irk him so much...and found himself uncomfortably unable to dismiss her reasoning.

"Well..." He floundered hopelessly. "Ya gotta admit ya don't act like most goils," he finally stated.

Flick's eyes flashed. _"An' why da he should I!?"_

Race just looked at her for a few seconds. He had seen Flick angry countless times. This certainly wasn't the first time she'd been angry at him. But only once before had he actually responded to her anger with an angry outburst of his own. It had done her a great deal of good then. It was to have the opposite effect now.

"Why shouldja?" Race repeated. Like Secret earlier that evening, he wasn't even sure where the words were coming from now. But unlike Secret, he had the strangest feeling that he meant them. "Why _shouldn't_ ya, fer cryin' out loud? Ya lash out at people an' beat 'em up fer ev'ry single t'ing ya don't like. Ya weah boy's clothes an' don't care dat ev'ryone who sets eyes on ya is horrified. Ya won't acknowledge leadehs, or follow rules, or...or even lose a da pokah game."

That was an incredibly pathetic ending to his rant. It wasn't what he'd meant to say. He had no idea what he'd meant to say. Only that there had indeed been a point somewhere in there, and he had lost it.

Flick sat in helpless shell shock.

_ What da...what **is** dis!? Did I miss some announcement declarin' dis Gang Up On Flick Day? Did Secret an' Race brew up some kinda conspiracy? Is it sometin' in da wadda?_

So great was her shock that it took a few moments for Racetrack's exact words to sink in. As she continued to stare through him, processing his speech, a low sound bubbled up from roughly ten feet behind the Sheepshead box. It was a seductive, intimate sort of sound, like a gentle rustle of silk or velvet in the dark. Flick's head snapped around, and she squinted at a form in the near distance.

It was a girl, she saw; around her age, maybe a year or two older. And another form walked beside her, arms wrapped around her waist, holding her close. A boy. It was the girl's laughter Flick had heard, provoked, no doubt, by some outrageous flattery her companion had whispered in her ear. The girl's long skirts rustled around her legs as the couple, unaware of any observers, leaned in toward each other for a deep kiss.

Flick quickly turned back to Race, her eyes as hard as stones.

"If dat's how ya feel, den why don'cha go find someone who _can't_ soak ya or beat ya at pokah?" she suggested, and to Race's amazement, her voice was actually quivering. "But I bet," she added venomously, "yer gonna have a long soich."

And before Race could make any kind of response, she had risen, left the box, and run headlong out into the night.  
  
It was quite a while before Flick got ahold of herself enough to slow her pace to a dignified walk. She wasn't pleased with herself for her actions; she had certain issues with running.

_ "Wheneveh ya run, yer runnin' away from sometin'."_

A close friend had told Flick that once, and another close friend had agreed. One of those friends was now dead, and the other had placed a severe and only presumably temporary dent in their friendship earlier that day. But the words still bothered Flick. She didn't like to run from things.

Of course, considering the alternative, in this case, had probably been knocking Racetrack senseless, perhaps it had been the best available option.

As she finally slowed her pace and looked around, it occurred to Flick that she was not entirely certain where she was. Unbeknownst to her, her situation was similar to Secret's the night before. However, Secret had been horrified and worried during her nocturnal wanderings. Flick was nothing of the kind. She saw no reason to be. If trouble came along, she'd just fight it.

_ In fact,_ Flick mused as she turned onto a dark and strangely unfamiliar street, _I could really use a fight right now. Lets off steam an' all dat. I wish some trouble **would** come along, an' hurry up about it._

It was mere seconds after making this silent wish that Flick drew nigh to the alley. It was just an alley like any other, nothing remarkable about it, and she wouldn't even have taken notice of it if she hadn't heard the unmistakable sounds of a conflict. As soon as she entered hearing range Shouts and swearing assaulted her ears, mingled with loud thumps and crashes.

She could have ignored it and kept walking. But when had Flick O'Grady ever ignored a fight?

Casually, she altered her course and sauntered into the alley.

The fighters, she discovered, were two very large and muscular teenage boys. Both looked to be several years older than she was, and the ragged and scarred appearances of both testified to difficult lives and complete knowledge of the streets. They were also both rainbows of bruises and cuts, and locked in such a raucous and ferocious physical and verbal battle that it was a while before they even noticed Flick's intrusion.

Finally, one boy hurled the other against one of the buildings between which the alley was sandwiched. He turned slightly and leaned against the opposite wall, to quickly catch his breath and savor the triumph. Flick smirked, expecting him to charge at her, and fully ready for the anticipated attack. But his reaction completely threw her off-kilter.

_ "You!"_ Straightening up immediately, the boy stared at her. His mouth dropped open. His eyes narrowed. As Flick watched in fascinated confusion, the color drained from his face, turning it livid with rage.

While he remained transfixed in what seemed to be shocked fury, his opponent managed to stand. But instead of taking advantage of the other boy's state of distraction, this one, too, turned his eyes on Flick...and sneered.

"Well, hey dere, goil," he greeted in a soft, fluid tone that was uncomfortably menacing, even for Flick. "Come ta gloat oveh da state ya managed ta t'row us inta?"

It was these words that served to strike the necessary chord in Flick's brain, and the realization of their meaning vibrated throughout her entire body, shooting an overwhelming surge of adrenaline into her veins.

_ Oh, deah God...I'se wanda'd inta __Queens__._


	7. Chapter Seven

**Author's Shout Outs:**

**Scamley Elliot~This chapter would not have come into existence without you. Thanks for bugging me, hon…it works. ^_^**

**StormShadow~Have I ever mentioned how much I love, love, _love_ your beautiful long detailed reviews? I love them!! *hopes Stitch-chan is still occasionally lurking around the ****Midnight**** Flare area of ff.net***

**My NML Reviewers~You gals know who you are, and you know I love you to death. But I want to add my usual special mentions to ****Eire****, Runaway, Tree, and ****Sparks****.**

**My TSRIRP Girls~Just 'cause you are my sisters. *huggles* Long live random insanity!!**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

**I wrote this chapter at some absolutely unmentionable hour of the night. My sweat and blood went into this thing…literally…so you'd best appreciate it! *snickers* No, that's not what I meant to say. The point is, I did not exactly proofread this chapter. ^^' So if you notice any typos, or you've got any constructive criticism (*pokes Runaway*), speak up, my loves. Also…if you happen to encounter anything…er, faintly bizarre…like, say, random gorey flashbacks or…_talking to dice…_I swear your Flare-chan is not abusing any substances…except her sleep-deprived body and mind.**

**Without further ado…******

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Out of all the girls her age in New York City...possibly out of all the people her age...Flick was the last one to feel or show fear at a pair of thugs.  
  
But Flick was not stupid. By the light of the moon, she absorbed the appearance of these two with the seasoned eye, having a solid decade of street rat's experience under her belt. And there was no getting around it; she did not like what she saw.  
  
She was small and muscular; these boys were huge and muscular. She was fifteen years old; they had to be at least eighteen, maybe nineteen. Her face was somewhat cold, but clearly proclaimed her emotions at any time except during a poker game. Their faces may as well have been stone; that was the extent of their coldness, hardness, and utter vacancy of feeling. Entirely against Flick's wishes, a shiver coursed down her spine. She had seen faces like that before. Beating her up when she was five years old, despite her ferocious struggles to fight back. Coming after kids she knew, old associates from Harlem, when they had failed to pay debts or keep their mouths shut about something. And, she couldn't help recalling, with a sharp twist in her stomach that almost caused her to gag, a face like that had belonged to the man she had killed last month.  
  
From their words, she had to surmise that the boys were Queens newsies. But that made no sense. That would mean that Flick had soaked both of them, and quite a few of their colleagues, in the now-infamous borough fight in Manhattan.  
  
Of course, Flick barely remembered the events of that fight. If asked to describe a single one of the boys she had knocked out, she would more likely start rambling about a red haze. It was only her overwhelming fury and grief that had allowed her to achieve a feat which would normally be quite impossible. Gulping quietly as the two newsboys approached her from either side, she found herself wishing desperately for just a bit of that incentive now.  
  
To her dismay, she surfaced from this evaluation of her plight to find herself slowly backing out of the alley.  
  
This was not right. This _did not_ _work_. She was Flick O'Grady, one of the toughest and most infamous fighters in Manhattan and Harlem, with what was possibly the worst temper in the city. She loved to fight, she had been fighting almost constantly for the past few weeks, and just a moment ago she had been _wishing_ to find a fight. Well, here was her wish, in the flesh, and it was time to take advantage of it.  
  
Before she could act on this decision, however, the larger of the boys saved her the trouble. She barely had a chance to blink, much less block the attack, before his fist had slammed into her eye.  
  
The pain was like a miniature explosion; but even more painful was the shock. Even as her hand automatically shot out to smash the boy's away, even as her knee bent and her leg shot out to deliver a kick to his stomach that sent him stumbling backward, she struggled to remember the last time someone had managed to land a blow on her. Just one blow.  
  
Not since she'd come to Manhattan. Not since _long_ _before_ she'd come to Manhattan.  
  
In fact, not counting the terrible struggle with Song's murderer, which had ended up making Flick an inadvertent killer herself, this was the first real fight she'd had in months. The so-called "fights" that were causing such an uproar among her Manhattan friends were not fights at all. They were soakings. And she was always the one doing the soaking.  
  
This was the real thing. This was a case of worthy opponents. More than worthy; these were hardened, seasoned fighters. Flick had thought that this definition applied to her as well. But she was out of practice.  
  
Everything happened so fast. At first, the black eye roused enough indignation in Flick to try and live up to her usual standard. She deftly leapt, spun, and ducked around her attackers in a dance for which she had learned the steps long ago, looking for openings and aiming punches and kicks. It was the style she had used against Queens before; and from the frustration her adversaries clearly felt, they remembered it well. But she had forgotten...stupidly forgotten...that fighting styles can be learned, memorized, and combatted much more easily the second time around.  
  
Her attempts were hardly shabby, but they were not succeeding. She hadn't even managed to touch either of the boys since her first retaliation when they tired of blocking her, and chose to return to the offense position.  
  
And Flick had to sacrifice every drop of dignity and start dodging.  
  
She dodged right and left, backward and forward, over and under, around and between, as she had not been forced to dodge in far too many years. And if she had gotten just a wee bit rusty in her fighting, defense was stretching her so thin that it was only a matter of time before she came out of this with a lot more than a black eye.  
  
Then, in a flash, everything changed one last time. In a flash of steel that shot out of the smaller boy's boot, clutched in his hand, to catch the moonlight and give off a silver glint colder and starker than any other light.  
  
A split second after that flash of silver was all it took for Flick to realize that she might not come out of this at all.  
  
"T'ink yer tough now, liddle goil?" the Queens newsie whispered, a truly sickening leer cracking across that stone face, revealing broken teeth and releasing stale breath on Flick's face. "T'ink yer sometin', knockin' down big Queens boys like dominoes? Ain't doin' so well t'night, are ya, _dragon?"_  
  
Some fragment of Flick's mind wondered irrelevantly, almost peevishly, how that irritating nickname that Race had come up with had managed to spread. The rest of her mind was experiencing something quite different. In the space of a moment, a second, a breath, three images flashed through it.  
  
The first was a memory, one that she had re-lived once on the riverbank with Racetrack's encouragement, and dozens of times since, though less vividly. An eighteen-year-old girl lay motionless outside a Harlem pub, golden hair fanned out around her, navy dress stained with blood and pierced with the unmistakably gleaming form of a knife.  
  
The second, another memory, almost as painful and terrible as the first, though less often reflected on. In this one, it was a man who lay outside the very same bar, eyes dull, hair matted and greasy, stinking of beer. And Flick herself stood over him, knuckles white as she clutched a different knife and watched blood drip from its tip onto the lifeless body.  
  
The third image to flash across Flick's mind was definitely not a memory. Yet it was as grisly as its predecessors, and the most horrifying yet. For the body portrayed in this one had bright red hair and wore a black newsie cap, and the blade that protruded from it was the very one that flashed in front of Flick's face now, with a tiny chip missing halfway down the handle.  
  
That knife came flying toward her, and she leapt backward, fell, rolled to her feet, and ran as she had never run before in her life.  
  
The footsteps behind her pounded the ground like thunder, and every one was like a jolt through her body, pushing her to run faster. That knife, with its glittering blade and chipped handle, appeared behind her eyes every time she blinked, and she had no desire to see it again any other way. She paid no heed whatsoever to the blurs on either side of her that were streets, buildings, and the occasional tree. Her mind was focused on only three points: her feet, the pounding behind her that represented two pairs of footsteps, and putting as much distance between those first two points as possible.  
  
She could not have come close to guessing how many blocks she had run when the alley came into sight. When it did, there was no time for hesitation. The first alley she had seen tonight had been a curse; this one just might be a blessing. Without slowing down, without losing a bit of momentum, Flick veered off-course, charged into the alley, and ran headlong into someone who was already occupying it. That person, whoever it was, voiced a brief cry as they both tumbled to the ground, which was quickly muffled by Flick's hand.  
  
They both listened in tense silence until two pairs of footsteps had passed the alley and kept right on running. Until those footsteps had finally passed out of earshot.  
  
Then Flick removed her hand from the mouth of the person she had run into. She rolled away and forced herself to stand, attempting to catch her breath while trying to get a look at her companion in the darkness as he, too, rose to his feet. When her eyes did adjust, however, they widened in incredulous shock. A pair of equally incredulous brown eyes stared back, from a light tan face about half a foot below hers.  
  
"So," Flick said conversationally, "da papes say biz'ness's been good fer yer type 'round heah."  
  
The boy didn't reply, but eyed the open street wistfully.  
  
"Youse shoah been pickin' da newsies dry, I heah. Rich folks, too. Mosta da borough, actu'lly. Ya part of a gang or sometin'?"  
  
The young pickpocket spoke, but ignored her question, instead asking one his own. "How many papes does fifty cents buy?"  
  
"A hundred," Flick informed him.  
  
He gulped. "Oh."  
  
"Not ta say I din't desoive havin' dat stolen," she added casually, taking a step toward him. "I know ya was mad at me, fer _tellin' bloody lies ta make money!"  
_  
At the sudden fury in her voice, the boy jumped back and spoke very quickly. "It wasn't ta make money! Dere was no money involved! An' it wasn't a lie, a'right, well, it wasn't true, but I b'lieved it at da time?" He chose that moment to make a break for it, attempting to dash out of the alley. He was fast, Flick had to admit that; but she easily anticipated the move and grabbed his arm, yanking him around again to face her.  
  
"Yeah?" So wheah'd ya heah it? An' why da _he**_ didja care enough ta come ta Manhattan, track me down, an' get me ta bloody _confess_ ta it in front o' four o' my friends? An' den, da next mornin', why on oith didja come back ta tell Secret an' me 'bout da fight? An' _who da he** are ya anyway!?"_  
  
She hadn't even realized that she had been twisting the kid's arm during this entire speech until a sharp gasp alerted her to the fact. Then, quickly, as if that gasp had not been voluntary and he didn't appreciate it, her captive followed it with an annoyed suggestion. "If yer gonna be firin' questions at me, ya wanna stop dat long enough fer me ta answa one?"  
  
Flick stopped, and actually grinned. Helplessness and tears had never moved her in the least, but she had an incurable weakness for spunk.  
  
"A'right. Why don'cha try das last one?"  
  
Somehow, he apparently did remember the last question, and answered it promptly and simply. "I'se Scamp."  
  
The newsgirl snorted. "I'll say."  
  
"An' yer Flick."  
  
"No kiddin'."  
  
"Dere was a rumah goin' 'round Harlem dat ya killed Song, an' I hoid it, 'cause I heah moah or less ev'rytin', y'know. It made me real mad. I jist couldn't b'lieve anyone'd do dat. An' get away wit it! So I found out dat ya went ta Manhattan, an' I jist kinda..."  
  
"Stalked me."  
  
"Well...yeah."  
  
"An' figuah'd ya'd get back at me fer moidah by pickin' my pocket, squeezin' out a confession, an' makin' my friends hate me."  
  
"What else was I s'posta do?" Scamp demanded.  
  
He had a point, Flick realized. He couldn't exactly have gone to the bulls.  
  
"So how'd ya find out it wasn't true?"  
  
"Harlem," he explained. "Afta...uh...da whole t'ing in Central Park, I went dere an' tawked ta da newsies. Well, a'right," he admitted in response to her expression, "I was tryin' ta convince dem too. But dey din't b'lieve a woid o' it. Dey told me ya neveh killed Song, dat it was some drunk who was mad oveh some pokah game. I figuah'd dey knew ya bedda den I did, so I came back ta Manhattan da next mornin' ta find ya, an' saw da war goin' on."  
  
"An' ya tried ta make it all up ta Secret an' me by trackin' us down, wakin' us up, an' tellin' us ta go fight."  
  
"Dat was da general idea." He met her eyes. "Got any moah questions?"  
  
"Yeah," Flick replied thoughtfully. "Why'dja care so much when ya t'ought I killed Song? Ya said it ta me yaself once, if I rememba right: kids die all da time on da streets. Why make such a big deal outta one ya neveh knew?"  
  
Scamp's eyes dropped from her face now, and intently examined a collection of old cigar butts on the ground.  
  
"I useta listen ta her play."  
  
Flick's jaw dropped. Unconsciously, she released Scamp's arm. He pulled it back and rubbed it absently, but made no move to leave.  
  
"Look," he blurted out, "ya want me ta show ya back ta Manhattan?"  
  
"Ya want me ta soak ya?" Flick offered, voice sharpening along with the re-opening of an old wound.  
  
"Not really. Ya wanna spend da night in Queens?" A distinct hint of a smirk flickered on Scamp's face. "Or maybe ya know yer way back?"  
  
Flick's eyes narrowed. The logic was irrefutable. You didn't have to be Secret to see that accepting this offer was the only sensible course of action.  
  
"A'right," she muttered at last, "guess dat can cancel da fifty cents ya owe me."  
  
"Sounds good ta me," Scamp replied.  
  
And he was off. Flick had some trouble keeping up with him in the darkness; he really was very fast, and he obviously knew the borough like the back of his hand. But not once did he slow down or look back to see if she was keeping up all right; he probably knew that she would slug him if he did. Accepting this much help was painful enough for her. Although Flick's heart was pounding furiously during the entire trek, Scamp used a complex route of twists and turns and obscure side streets, and there was no sign of the knife-wielding newsie and his crony.  
  
Then, all at once, Flick turned a corner in pursuit of her guide and found that Scamp had vanished completely.

For a moment, she merely stood frozen in place, staring all around her in disbelief. Then she ran down the street, stopping dead in her tracks when she found that it forked, splitting off into two new streets. Down each one in turn she gazed, and then she called.

"Hello?"

There was no answer.

_"Scamp?"___

Nothing.

"Kid, if ya don't get out heah dis instant, I sweah I will track ya down an' slit ya throat!"

But the boy did not materialize.

Flick shivered. The night was awfully dark, and awfully cold. Somewhere in this borough, a couple people were hunting her with a knife. And she was suddenly very, very alone.

_I can't believe I trusted dat kid. I absolutely can't believe dat. When's da las' time I trusted **anyone** widdout question, let alone a da**  **pickpocket**!?_

At least he had led her this far…if it was even the right way. Considering her dilemma, she decided to assume for now that Scamp's directions up to this point had been accurate. Now that he had so conveniently vanished, it was up to her to choose between the two potential paths.

One of them might lead her back to Manhattan. The other was sure to lead deeper into Queens.

_Ooh, I'se always hated decisions, _Flick reflected mournfully. Spontaneous, impulsive, that was her style. Charging in without looking ahead, and without looking back. Her "decisions" were no more than random, inexplicable whims. But this one might cost her her life.

Mulling the situation over, with that blasted knife flashing across her mind again every few seconds, it was by pure chance that Flick's hand happened to stray into her pocket. It wasn't the pocket in which she kept her money and Song's old deck of cards, and she was used to regarding it as empty. So she was surprised when her fingers brushed against something small and rough. Frowning, she wrapped them around the object and withdrew it, lifting it close to her face to discern its identity.

It was not just one "something", but two. A pair of roughly carved wooden cubes, each with a pattern of tiny dots engraved in each side. They didn't match; one was red and the other was white. But their nature was unmistakable. Dice!

Dice that had come from…where?

She flipped through her memory like a book.

_A-ha! _Dice that had come from Racetrack's pocket after she had spent an hour or two crying hysterically on the riverbank.

Why she had made him give her those dice, she had not known at the time, and had no more idea now. She had long since forgotten the incident, and supposed Race probably had too. But here they were, and they were all she had to work with.

"Yer gonna help me get outta heah," Flick informed the dice.

The dice did not answer, but stared blankly with their dice-dot eyes, white on the red die and black on the white one.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, an urgent alarm went off. _Emoigency! Emoigency! _it shrieked. _Tawkin' ta dice! Tawkin' ta dice! Emoigency!_

Flick ignored it.

"Yep," she re-stated quite firmly, "yer gonna help me get outta heah. I jist need ta figuah out how."

It wasn't a particularly ingenius concept. Her eyes simply fell on one of the streets at random; it happened to be the left one. She trotted over to that street and once again peered down its night-shrouded length. It looked just as unfamiliar as the other one. Shrugging, she lifted the dice to eye level again.

"A'right, heah's da deal," she explained calmly. "Odd numba, yes; even numba, no."

And she flipped her hand upside-down and opened her fingers, releasing the dice and allowing them to summersault down through the air and softly clatter onto the street. Nodding with satisfaction, she bent down to pluck them from the ground and examine them. The red die had landed on the number two; the white die on four. Together, they added up to six, an even number.

"No?" Flick eyed the dice suspiciously for a moment before pocketing them again. "Well," she muttered as she took off down the path they had chosen for her, "I hope yer right."

The moment the door to the lodging house opened, Racetrack was on his feet.

"S'bout time--_Flick!?!"___

For it was none other than Flick O'Grady who entered the building, letting the door slam behind her. She seemed as surprised to see him as he was to see her. Yet his surprise was about to increase a good deal.

"Flick," he gasped, taking several tentative steps toward her and covering his mouth with one hand. "Wha--what _happened?_

Startled, her hand shot up to her left eye, which was ringed in an outstanding shiner. It was as if she had forgotten it was there.  
  
With that realization, and Race standing before her, another memory seemed to hit her as well. He could tell from the way her face darkened that their fight earlier that night had not been prevalent in her mind until that moment.  
  
"I'll deal wit _you_ tomorra," she growled, her tone both angry and exhausted. With that, she swung around, grabbed the pen by the registration book, signed it in one practiced motion, crossed the lobby, and proceeded into the bunkroom. Race watched the door shut behind her, shook his head, and resumed his seat, pulling out a new cigar.  
  
As she felt for her nightgown in the darkness, it occurred to Flick that Race hadn't followed her into the bunkroom. Also, she felt that something wasn't quite right here in this room full of sleeping newsies. And it didn't take her long to realize what it was.  
  
     She hadn't been the only person Racetrack was waiting up for. The bunks belonging to the members of the Brooklyn visiting party were empty.


	8. Chapter Eight

Author's Note: This one's for StormShadow and Scamley Elliot, two of the most faithful, obsessive reviewers I can imagine. Thank you so much for being more patient and devoted than I ever expected, reviewing my other fics even though I knew you were both waiting on this one, and most of all, making me see that this fic had to be continued. Yep, I never mentioned it to anyone, but I really never expected to come back to this fic. I'd read it and SOH over a few times, and gotten frustrated with certain issues, like Flick and Secret's rather highly Mary-Sueish tendencies. So I was just going to abandon it. But when the references to it and pleas for an update just didn't stop, I finally decided that, just for you _chicas,_ I'd try to write the next chapter. Well, turns out I'd forgotten something: Mary-Sue-ishness and all, I love those two newsgirls to death, and they are, and probably always will be, my absolute favorite characters to write about. :-) So...thankee muchly for reminding me of that. :-D Hope you enjoy this chapter, and all the chapters to come!

And since I hate to leave anyone out, I must also add that this chapter is most definitely for Tree, and anyone else who hasn't forgotten this story...Eire-chan? Runaway-chan? Sparks-san? And anyone else! :-) Love you all.

Flare

**Same Night**

**Brooklyn**

"Yeah, I came. So what?"

            Secret kept her voice absolutely cool and neutral, desperately determined not to reveal a single one of the overpowering emotions that was attacking her soul. She locked her eyes firmly on the river, and locked her mind on the cool black night water; tricks like this, or like picturing a sheet of ice, often helped prevent her face from flushing, or a spark in her eyes that might betray something.

            Spot's usual smirk appeared in response to her curtness. He didn't seem to care that there were newsboys running, jumping, and shouting all around them. At least the girls had tactfully drifted away, slipping one by one into the water. Secret watched Mulberry join the seldom-seen Broom, whose straw-colored hair hung in limp clumps down her back, and whose skin had a bare, scalded look without its protective layers of dust. Broom appeared skittish and uncertain in the midst of all this activity. She looked like she would have loved to be back sweeping under her bunk, and Secret suddenly felt that she wouldn't much mind that either.

            "So," Spot was saying smugly, tapping his cane on the dock, "I'm guessin' ya came fer a _reason."_ That insurpassable arrogance was growing so strong that it was mercifully threatening to overcome his stunning, god-like appearance.

            "Reason?" Secret squeaked, voice growing higher with disbelief. "Ya _invited_ me!" Well, that was one way to put it. "Requested" was the word Jack had used.

            A dry laugh followed this exclamation. "Yeah...an' ya came."

            Secret's heart froze. She could see where this was leading. "I _came,"_ she established stonily, "'cause Brooklyn's a nice place ta visit, an' I assumed from what Jack said dat I wasn't gonna get jumped da second I stepped off da bridge. It ain't got nuttin' ta do wit _you."_

            At these words, a sudden and entirely unexpected sound caused Secret to nearly jump out of her skin: a soft, dry, and chillingly venomous cackle.

            _This_ laugh, so ominous a sound that it raised the hairs on Secret's arms, most certainly did not come from Spot. With a slight involuntary gasp, Secret whirled toward the shadows that cloaked the end of the dock. There stood a girl, about three years older than Secret and at least seven or eight inches taller. She was clad in a ragged shirt and pants of navy blue. Saturated from a recent swim, they clung tightly to every flawless curve of her body. A glory of red-gold hair tumbled down her back, offering a potential for great beauty...but her eyes were two hard, dark stones, opaque and emotionless in a sharp-featured face.

            "Nothin' ta do wit him, huh?" The malice in the stranger's eyes was unmistakable, and so strong that it made Secret want to back right into the river to escape it. "Ain't I hoid dat one befoah!"

            "Shuddup, Dagga," Spot growled with quiet fury. This was almost laughable, for Spot was about the same size as Secret, and the girl called Dagger towered over him as well. And indeed, she did not show the slightest shade of fear at his anger. Instead, a tiny, very grim, stone-cold smirk appeared on her face.

            "S'madda, Conlon?" she asked in a harsh whisper, leaning slightly closer to Spot, who pushed her away in apparent disgust. "Ya plannin' ta pretend ta dis one dat ya neveh looked twice at anudda goil?" she continued snidely. "Like ya did ta, say, Brook? Or are ya gonna brag 'bout 'em, name each a'dem like dey was trophies ya'd won? I could help ya out dere, y'know. I t'ink I 'memba a few names youse long since f'gotten."

            "Dagga," Spot spoke up in a voice so deadly it seemed the lower the temperature of the night, "if ya don't get away from heah right now, eidda I'se gonna break my record o' neveh hittin' a goil, or yeh'll hafta find yaself a new lodgin' house t'night."

            The glare Dagger gave him could have crystalized honey, and the way her hand drifted toward her belt made Secret squint in the darkness and wonder nervously about the source of her nickname. But then she gave another low, poisonous chuckle, pivoted on her heels, and stalked back across the dock, putting Secret in mind of a lioness abandoning prey that wasn't worth her time.

            Staring after her until she disappeared in the direction of the lodging house, Secret then reluctantly turned back to Spot. His pensive glare melted at once, and he flashed her another cocky smile. Dagger's words still hung in the air, however, and Secret shuddered slightly.

            _Ooh boy. What've I gotten myself inta?_

"Don't pay no 'tention ta Dagga," Spot advised her smoothly, starting to stride across the dock in the opposite direction. Secret followed him without thinking, since he was still talking to her. "She's crazy. Been jealous eveh since I broke up wit 'er, an' dat was oveh a yeah ago."

            _Broke up wit 'er? Ya had ta do moah den dat...ya toined 'er inta a soipent!_

"She's always been like dat, dough," he added, as if reading her mind. "Bittah, y'know...nasty. Real demon."

            Secret eyed him thoughtfully as they walked, wondering if he was telling the truth. She had no reason to believe him, except that she found it hard to picture Dagger as being some sweet, innocent young girl even prior to whatever relationship she'd had with Spot.

            Her mind spiraling off-topic, Secret found herself randomly wondering if Dagger had been shorter then. Picturing Spot donning shoes with eight-inch heels in order to kiss her, she decided that the "demon" had most certainly had a growth spurt in the past year. Then her eyes widened at the realization that she had just spent a good five seconds pondering that puzzle.

            "So," Spot was saying, "ya gonna pull dat silent act fer da rest o' da night an' make me do all da tawkin'?"

            Finally coming out of her reverie to take note of her surroundings, Secret yelped out loud and nearly fell over backwards. That would have been most unfortunate, for she would have fallen a most dizzying and deadly height, ending with a plunge into the East River.

            _"How da he did we get heah!?" _she demanded shrilly, without the faintest trace of her old serenity and restraint. They were standing in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge.

            Spot's smirk grew wider than she had ever seen it. "I walked an' tawked. You followed an' listened," he replied gleefully.

            Secret's heart raced. He had lured her here, flat-out _lured_ her, away from the docks, away from the lodging house, away from her fellow Manhattan newsies as well as his own Brooklynites. It was even worse than falling for some thoroughly stupid age-old trick, like an appeal to help him look for some lost item. She had simply followed him as meekly as a loyal puppy!

            And her alter ego would have to die right now, quickly and painlessly, once and for all, if she was ever going to make it out of here without finding herself in a situation she would sorely regret.

            _Cool. T'ink wadda. T'ink ice._

"Sorry," Secret told the Brooklyn leader in a voice that _was_ ice. "Din't notice wheah we was headin'. I'll be goin' back now." She began to walk briskly back toward the Brooklyn side of the bridge.

            "Hey!" Just as she had expected, Spot materialized in front of her and caught her arm. "Hang on, goil, I'se tryin' ta tawk ta ya."

            "Ya been tawkin' ta me all evenin'," Secret snapped. "I guess it neveh occured ta ya dere might be odda people I'd radda tawk ta."

            "Like who?" Spot released her but continued to stand in her path, and folded his arms, gazing levelly at her and revealing no emotion. "Blink, maybe? Mouth? Bumlets? Skitts? Or is it Mush ya got ya eye on? Yeah, dat's who it is, right? I hate ta tell ya dis, but he's awready got a goil."

            Secret stared at him in wordless, nonplussed amazement. Besides Flick...who she was still determined not to think of, as she didn't even know where their friendship stood at the moment...Mush was her best friend in the world. She had never once thought of him in the way Spot was suggesting, and as Spot barely knew anything about her, his making any guesses about her feelings toward anyone seemed absurd.

            "No?" There was a note of deep triumph in Spot's voice now. "No, ya don't like 'im, do ya? Nah...I can tell 'bout dese t'ings. An' he ain't fallen fer you. None of 'em has. I really can't believe dat." A long pause, for emphasis, it would seem. "Ya shoah are beautiful, y'know."

            _Wow. Huge score dere in da subtlty depahtment. So much fer small tawk. Nothin' like gettin' straight ta da point._

Secret may have aquired a second personality, but she was relieved to find that at least her original one still seemed to be alive and well.

            _I'se t'inkin' sense an' tawkin' calmly. Definitely good._

"So I'se been told," she answered flatly, turning away from Spot, leaning against the railing and gazing languidly down at the river, as if her eyes were _not_ struggling to return to Spot's face like moths to a flame.

            "Yeah?" Spot sauntered over to stand beside her at the railing, but it was not the water he stared at. "So who told ya dat?"

            He tried to keep his voice casual, but Secret wasn't fooled. Something about the Brooklyn newsies seemed to make her compare them to various animals. If Dagger was a lioness or a serpent, Spot was a dog or wolf, an Alpha Male, sniffing around a female he fancied, trying to detect the scent of a rival suitor.

            _Disgustin'._

"Dat," she informed Spot, immensely comforted that she had reclaimed her ability to make her face the proverbial glacier, "is none o' ya biz'ness."

            "No," Spot agreed softly, caressingly. "It ain't, is it?"

            His hand darted out to gently cup her face and turn it toward his. She jerked away from him as fast as if he had slapped her, and instinctively wiped the sleeve of Mulberry's shirt across her cheek, to remove some invisible stinging poison.

            _I can fight! _This was a huge revelation that hit her with the force of a sledgehammer. When on earth had she forgotten that fact? _I can fight! I loined from da best fighta in New Yawk! Whadda I t'ink I am heah, some kinda helpless liddle doll who can't t'row a punch or aim a kick? I could be outta heah in five seconds flat!_

This speculation was only a partial recovery of her reason, however, and the rest of it soon caught up. The idea might have been plausible with many other boys, but not with Spot Conlon. Even Flick herself probably couldn't beat _him_ in a fight. Last time Secret had been angry with him, she had seized the opportunity to push him in the river; but the setting was different now; and, furious as she was at the moment, she didn't think the situation yet called for her to push him off a bridge.

            The breeze picked up slightly, making the September chill all the more poignant. One raven lock of Secret's hair blew across her eyes, and Spot brushed it aside, tucking it behind her ear in a gesture that sent horrible thrills shooting through her; horrible not in and of themselves, but because of how strongly the rational part of her mind and her very conscience objected to them.

            She was too numb with shock and confusion to pull away this time, and the contradiction between this and her previous reaction produced a half-triumphant, half-bemused expression on Spot's face. "I can see why ya dey call ya Secret," he murmured. "No way ta tell what ya t'inkin' or feelin'."

            That little key hung around his neck, glinting in the moonlight. And suddenly it was swinging, swinging forward, closer to Secret. She was looking at the key. That was what she would remember. Not his face, not his eyes, just the key and how bright it looked, and how strange and surreal, swinging through the air in slow motion like some sort of magic pendulum.

            Then his arms were around her, he was pulling her to him, his lips were on hers, her mind exploded with the perfect and eerie silence of a supernova in the vaccuum of space, and of an uncertain stretch of time that seemed to be centuries contained within seconds, she remembered absolutely nothing.

The moment the door of the lodging house opened and several sets of footsteps padded into the lobby, Flick was out of bed, down the ladder, and at the bunkroom door in a flash. She wore the cotton shift that she slept in, but she had not enjoyed so much as a moment of light doze since returning from her frightening adventure in Queens. She was also perfectly aware that Race had remained as awake as she had, and that he was too scared of her current mood to emphasize that fact.

            The door swung open, the Brooklyn visiting party entered, and Flick stood still as a statue and surveyed the scene in grim horror.

            Secret froze near the doorway. Her familiar electric-blue eyes appeared to be seeing straight from that doorway to the moon, and missing everything in between. Her dress was on backwards, her face was flushed, and she was shaking...that was the worst part...shaking helplessly, like the victim of some terrible fever. Mush stood close beside her, clutching her hand, gazing at her with desperate concern, but she took no notice whatsoever of him. On her other side, Blink rested a tentative hand on her arm, looking nervous. Bumlets, Itey, and Skittery shot her worried, rather panicked glances, which they then exchanged among themselves, and wordlessly took to their bunks. Jack, however, remained, stepping in front of Secret and her two escorts and giving Flick a look she had never imagined coming from him; something like a terrified child begging for assistance from a parent.

            If it was comfort he wanted, however, it was not forthcoming. Flick took one look at Secret and whirled on the one person present to whom she was used to applying blame.

            "What da he happened?"

            "I dunno!" Jack replied in a desperate whisper, since waking the other boys would only complicate things further. "She won't tell us! She won't say _nothin'!"_

The whispers did, however, reach the ears of those who were already awake, and at the distress in Flick and Cowboy's voices, Race appeared at Flick's side. For the moment, their quarrel was forgotten; Race took one gaping look at Secret, glanced at Flick, and pointedly cocked his head toward the door. She nodded, and Mush and Blink, interpreting these silent gestures, steered Secret back out into the lobby. Flick and Race followed closely. When Jack hesitated just inside the bunkroom, Flick raised her eyebrows at him and made an impatient gesture toward his bunk. For an instant, he looked like he might argue; then he nodded gravely and retreated, and Flick snapped the door quietly shut.

            "What happened?" she repeated at once, eyes locked on Secret. Secret merely stared mutely, however, and it was Blink who finally answered.

            "When we foist arrived in Brooklyn," he explained to Flick and Race, "one o' da goils, Mulberry, I t'ink, took 'er ta da lodgin' house ta get changed. Dey was gone a while, an' den dey came back, an' Secret was standin' by da rivah, tawkin' wit da goils. Mush an' me din't see any sign o' Spot, an' we figuahed she could take care o' ha'self, so no one was payin' much attention ta her afta dat."

            "Us Manhattan boys was all mixed in wit da Brooklyn crowd," Mush took over softly, eyes never leaving Secret, "an' it was so crowded an' crazy, dere was no way ta keep track o' anyone. None o' us saw Secret again fer I dunno how long. But suddenly she was runnin' down da dock, comin' from da direction o' da bridge...God knows what she was doin' oveh dere. She was all...well, like she is now...all red an' shakin'...I got outta da wadda an' ran ovah ta her, an' she ast me if we could leave...I said o' course, an' ast 'er what happened, but she wouldn't answa...she jist ran ta da lodgin' house ta change back inta her dress, den we headed home, an' she ain't said a woid 'tween den an' now."

            Flick, of course, had no patience with _this_ information. She marched over to Secret, brushed Mush and Blink aside, placed her hands on her friend's shoulders, and as good as laser-beamed Secret's eyes with hers.

            "Secret, tawk ta me dis instant or I sweah I'll soak ya."

            Secret blinked, shook off Flick's hands, and took a step back, but her eyes seemed to come back into focus. She stopped shaking, and a shadow of a smile flickered around her lips. "Heya, Flick."

            "Da," Blink commented, impressed, "why din't I t'ink o' dat?"

            Flick smirked at him. "'Cause _you_ couldn't really soak 'er, dat's why." She returned her attention to Secret. "A'right, goil, no moah o' dat 'in shock' act. What happened ta ya in Brooklyn? Conlon did sometin' ta ya, din't 'e? I sweah I'll kill da--"

            Secret quickly held up a hand to silence Flick before she could question the legitimacy of Spot's birth. "Nothin'."

            _"What?" _Flick and the Musketeers exchanged impatient, incredulous glances.

            "Nothin'," Secret repeated, her voice firmer, although the high color was only just fading from her cheeks. "Nothin' happened."

            _"Right," _Blink replied, his frustration clear. "Dat's why ya disappeahed fer so long, came back moah upset an' flusta'd den I'se eveh seen ya, ast us ta leave, an' shook like a leaf an' refused ta speak all da way back."

            Secret's eyes flashed at him. "I was scared."

            "Right!" Race agreed encouragingly. "An' what scared ya?"

            Some sort of struggle seemed to be going on inside Secret; her face was slowly reddening again. At last she answered, slowly and haltingly. "I...saw...him."

            "'Him'?" Mush prodded gently.

            "Spot!" Secret snapped, whirling on him. "I saw Spot. An' I was scared."

            Flick scoffed. "Ya really 'spect us ta believe dat ya had dat kinda reaction jist from _seein'_ 'im?"

            _Although, consid'rin' how she's been actin' jist from heahin' da name o' his borough mentioned, I wouldn't be su'prised..._

But Secret didn't answer. Her mouth set into a thin, hard line that Flick recognized, and that the boys were also familiar with. As Flick had mused only that morning, questioning Secret now would be like trying to pull teeth that were cemented in place. Fixing her eyes to the floor, the silent wraith swung around and placed a hand on the bunkroom door. Mush and Blink were still watching her anxiously, but Race observed as Flick's eyes deepened to cobalt, and he saw her next words coming.

            "Fine." The dragon addressed the small, dark-haired girl in a low hiss. "Dat's jist fine. Go ta bed, don't tell us a t'ing, don't give us any way ta help ya, don't even give us any _reason_ ta wanna help ya. Go ta bed an' dream 'bout Spot an' whateveh wondaful _secret_ t'ings 'e said or did ta ya. Oh, an' ya can f'got what ya said ta me oylia t'day...but ya awready have, ain'cha?"

            Now Secret turned, eyes not at all distant but sharply focused, and wide with horror. Clearly, Flick was entirely right; she _had_ forgotten. Her hand rose to cover her mouth, as it had when her shocking words that afternoon had first been spoken. "F...Flick, I--"

            "Get ta bed," Flick ordered curtly through clenched teeth.

            The pain in Secret's face was evident and unnerving to each of the four witnesses, especially since they were used to that face showing no emotion at all. But, after one last pleading glance at Flick, she obeyed, tiptoeing into the bunkroom and making a beeline for the washroom to get changed and wash up. One look at Flick sent Blink and Mush in after her. The door closed once more, and only two of the infamous Five Musketeers remained in the lobby.

            Race stood awkwardly across from Flick. Her lashing out at Secret had reminded him of the regrettable things he himself had said to her that night. No wonder she was in such a bad mood. All of her friends were turning traitor.

            "I'se sorry," he finally offered in a small voice.

            "Fer what?" she asked, in a softer and less hostile manner than he had expected.

            "Ev'rytin'."

            "Ev'rytin' wasn't ya fault."

            "Well, fer da part dat was."

            Flick regarded him for a long moment, then sighed and shrugged. "A'right. Whateveh. I jist happen ta be furious at Secret at da moment, an' if I try bein' mad at both o' youse at da same, I'll go crazy."

            _At da two people I care 'bout most, _she added silently.

            Race leaned wearily against the wall, absently lighting himself a cigar. "Flick, sometimes I t'ink ya don't need a motive ta go crazy."

            Flick rolled her eyes. "It's jist...I ain't e'zactly had da best o' days, Race," she pointed out ruefully. "Foist my best friend says sometin' moah vicious den I eveh t'ought she was _capable_ o' sayin', let alone ta me. Den _you_ go an' start givin' me a hard time at da race, an' den--" She cut off abruptly, hand flying to her face, delicately fingering the fresh, dark bruise.

            The others hadn't commented. Of course not. The situation with Secret had distracted them.

            "Dey din't notice," she thought aloud, relieved. Race, however, frowned.

            "I noticed." When she didn't respond, he hinted, "Well?"

            "Well...I got in a fight."

            "Yeah? An' heah I'd figuah'd ya tripped."

            Flick snorted. When it became apparent that that was all she planned to say on the matter, Race stamped out his cigar in resignation. "A'right, have it yer way. Half-truths again. You an' Secret both. Jist like da week afta youse two foist came heah. Ain't eidda o' youse eveh gonna start trustin' us, Flick?"

            "How can we?" Flick countered. "We can't even trust each odda."

            Race just shook his head, staring at her black eye and the fiery anger that still blazed in her face. All at once, he grinned.

            "Tell ya one t'ing...musta been one tough _teppista _ta land a punch on Flick O'Grady."

            He was pleased to see her eyes lighten a shade; she seemed to possess some fascination with the foreign words that occasionally slipped into his speech.

            "Translation, please?"

            "Thug," Race replied simply.

            "Ah." Flick smiled weakly. "Y'know, ya gotta teach me dat sometime."

            "Teach ya Italian?" He actually laughed slightly at the sheer abruptness and irrelevance of the request, but stopped quickly at Flick's glare and held up his hands in surrender. "A'right, shoah! Why not? Italian lessons. We'll start tomorra."

            "Yeah," Flick agreed firmly. "An' we'll tawk."

            "Sounds good ta me," Race murmured as he finally opened the door, and the two of them padded toward their bunk beds, located next to each other. "We shoah got plenty ta tawk about."

            Flick nodded grimly and climbed up into her bunk, not sparing so much as a glance for the girl in the bunk below. She flopped back onto her pillow, never guessing that by this time the next night, she and Racetrack would have even more to discuss.

Secret's eyes were closed, but she was not asleep. She did not tremble anymore, nor did she cry. Her body was numb, her mind barely functioning. She wanted to become nothing, a shadow, or a solid wall that would block out the world. All he had done was kiss her. She couldn't even remember that kiss. It was long, she was sure, and deep; she remembered a silent explosion. She hadn't liked it. She hadn't hated it. She hadn't felt anything at all.

            He couldn't have known it was her first kiss ever. He couldn't have known how utterly lost she had been, as the person she had always been, and everything she had always known, seemed to shatter in that eerie supernova. He couldn't have known there was someone watching them, standing far away, on the Manhattan side of the bridge, his lips, in keeping with the terrible silence, speaking nothing aloud, but carefully mouthing her name.

A/N: And there you go. At last, an update for my beloved readers. :-) I don't have to beg you to review. You always review. And how very grateful I am for it. But do let me know what you think. Tell me if Secret's annoying you. (She's annoying me! ) Tell me what you think will happen with her and Spot. Tell me if _anything_ will ever happen with Flick and Race. Tell me I ask too many questions...just tell! evil grin 'Cause the more you tell, the sooner I update...

Your Terrible Little Slacker,

Flare


	9. Chapter Nine

Author's Note: Here are the instructions for reading this chapter.

1. Don't pass out cold. This is an update. You are not delusional, you are not drunk (er…well, I hope not). This. Is. Real.

2. Remain calm. Do not hyperventilate. It isn't healthy.

3. Do not…I repeat, DO NOT…come after Flare with a butcher knife, shotgun, table leg, blazing torch, or other hazardous object.

I could be cute and say I lost my keyboard. I could be melodramatic and say my house burned down and my whole family perished and I was hospitalized for a couple months, followed by massive psychological therapy. I could be evil and say I completely lost my obsession with _Newsies _and the world of fanfiction (BLESSED GODDESS FORBID!!) _Or…_I could be honest. And say, damn long-term writer's block to eternal suffering.

Anyone who reads this has my passionate, out-of-control, undying love and devotion for sticking with a fic that will probably be finished when they're grandparents. But there is one person for whom I have a special note…and I think you know who you are.

**Chelsea/StormShadow—**What to say? I love you. You know it. I hereby solemnly declare that I love you more than any author has ever loved a reviewer. And for this reason, I am humbly hoping that you will not brutally murder me for my inexcusable disappearance. To save my life, I have only two things to say for myself. One: this story is not, NOT, **_ABSOLUTELY NOT_** getting abandoned again. I know the _entire _plot in great detail and I am going to transfer that _entire _plot into writing as fast as I can from now on, and I don't care if it kills me. I can't speak for Appassionata yet, but I promise I will do my best to get back to that as well. Two: I didn't exactly _entirely _disappear. And you may interpret that however you like. But I _will_ just happen to mention that you seem to find me no matter what…and the name "Alias" may be…well, exactly that.

And that's all I'm saying. ::whistles innocently::

**September 23, 1899****, ****8:30 A.M.**

**Manhattan**

Selling the next morning was a grim affair. In the lodging house, as the newsies made their usual daily preparations, Flick accepted an apology from Secret for her sorely regretted words; but both of them, as well as all the other witnesses, knew that it was meaningless. Secret's remark had stung more than a simple apology could heal, and Flick was not possessed of a readily forgiving nature. Therefore, the atmosphere along Mulberry Street, the latest selling spot selected by the two girls and their usual three male companions, was awkward and crackling with tension.

"Flick?" Blink muttered at one point, after the group had been lightening their stacks of papers for about two and a half hours, and the strain was becoming unbearable.

"Mmm?"

"Could ya please punch someone an' get it oveh wit?"

The dragon chuckled darkly, but she knew what he meant. The whole morning felt like a delicate plate that needed to be deliberately shattered before it exploded of its own accord. And she supposed that everyone _would_ be a lot more comfortable if she finally gave in and soaked someone, as opposed to eyeing every one of them as if she was going to soak them.

Secret kept her eyes on her papes, and refrained from uttering a single word that wasn't part of an improved headline. This worried Mush, bothered Race and Blink, and disgusted Flick, but surprised no one. As for Flick's black eye, she had made up a sketchy story, void of details, about running off from the race the previous night and getting into a fight. There was not a single lie contained in it; simply the same half-truths that were becoming the bane of Racetrack's existence. Most of the boys had swallowed it; Flick fighting was no more shocking than anyone else breathing. Only Race, Mush, and Blink had exchanged irritated glances, and Secret had shed her blank face for a moment and shot Flick a look that basically stated, _If__ dis was normal coicumstances, I'd have da **whole** story outta ya in a second._

But circumstances were far from normal; and, since Flick wisely resisted taking Blink's advice, and Secret's silence remained unbroken, they continued to grow less and less normal, until the sun crawled into its noon position and stomachs began to growl. All five partners tried to resist for a few minutes, but finally Blink wandered over to Mush and beckoned the others to congregate.

"Uh, guys..." His eyes darted across his friends' faces, as if expecting one of them to give a wild scream and attack him at any moment. "We, uh, goin' ta Tibby's?"

Flick's stomach immediately performed a flip-flop at the very idea of being in a crowded room full of chattering boys right now. She turned a frantic expression on Race, hoping he would rescue her. Reading the "no" in her eyes, he rose to the occasion.

"Nah," he said quickly in response to Blink's question, "I don't really feel like Tibby's, but...Flick, ya 'memba dat one venda we tried once, neah Medda's...on da night o' ya foist horse race?"

"Yeah!" Flick smiled in surprise; she remembered it well, but hadn't expected him to.

"Wanna go see if he's still around?"

"Shoah." Praying silently, she turned to her other three friends. "Youse guys can jist go widdout us, dough--"

"Actually," Mush interrupted, softly but firmly, startling all of them, "dere's kinda somewheah else I wanted ta go...well, somewheah I wanted ta take Secret."

At this, Secret abruptly jerked toward him, her face wearing the startled dismay of a mouse caught in a trap. Hopefully, she scanned the group for someone to rescue her from the situation, as Race had rescued Flick; then she seemed to remember that she was currently a semi-outcast with no allies. Biting her lip, she returned her gaze to Mush and managed one timid syllable: "Wheah?"

"Dere's someone I want ya ta meet," Mush replied earnestly. "Will ya come?"

There was a pause, while Secret chewed her lip, considered her options, and allowed Mush's eyes to reduce her heart to a pile of Jello. Then, reluctantly, she nodded.

"Great!" Mush's face lit up, and he took her arm and headed down the street, ignoring the fact that Secret looked like she was being marched to the executioner.

"Gee," Blink commented, eyes first following Mush and Secret, then settling on Flick and Race, "don't I feel loved."

Race snickered. "Go ta Tibby's," he suggested. "Dey'll be wond'rin' what happened ta da rest of us."

"Yeah," Flick chimed in, "tell 'em it was a mass suicide."

"Dey'll believe it," Blink answered at once. With a wave, he bounded off in the direction of Tibby's, whistling with his usual enthusiasm; though he did spare one backward glance for the two retreating couples, and mumbled under his breath, "I'se almost expectin' it ta come true."

* * *

"So," Race asked as he and Flick made their way toward Broome Street, the location of Irving Hall and the vendor they both remembered, "we gonna have dat tawk now?"

Flick shook her head adamently. "Latah, a'right? Right now I feel like my head's 'bout ta explode. I don't even wanna _t'ink_ 'bout Secret or whateveh's goin' on wit 'er."

Race nodded sympathetically. "So, whatcha wanna tawk about?"

Flick pondered this question lazily. It wasn't as if the two of them had no common interests, but poker and horses could only be discussed so frequently before the subjects were temporarily exhausted. Then she brightened.

"Don't tell me youse f'gotten what ya promised las' night."

Race grinned. "Oh yeah! Italian lessons, right?"

"Right." She waited expectantly as they passed the rare sight of a few scruffy trees, and crunched over the scarlet, gold, and orange leaves they had shed. It was these that inspired Race. Figuring leaves made as good a start as any, he picked one up and displayed it to Flick, identifying it as _foglia._

"Foe-glee-uh." Flick repeated the unfamiliar word uncertainly, and Race felt it necessary to correct her pronunciation. After a few more tries, he was satisfied, and they moved on, taking turns selecting random words.

"How 'bout goil?"

_"Ragazza. _An' boy is _ragazzo."_

"City?"

_"Citta. _Lodgin' house is _pensione."_

"Night."

_"Notte. _Day's _giorno."_

"Dark? Moon?"

_"Buio _an' _luna._ Light is _luce,_ an' sun's _sole_."

"How d'ya say star?"

_"Stella."_

At this point, Race managed to curb Flick's enthusiasm by insisting that they move more slowly, and encouraged her to repeat back each of the words he had just given her. Her memory was sharp, but she was only human; mistakes were made. Consequently, repetitions were rattled off, accented syllables emphasized, memory devices invented. The two friends reached Broome, discovered their vendor, absentmindedly bought a pair of sandwiches, settled down on a corner bench to eat them, and continued their lessons. Word after word Flick listened to, analyzed, repeated, reviewed, and committed to memory. Race was rather astonished by the whole process; for one thing, he had never exactly thought of himself as a teacher, except perhaps in the fine art of poker, and for another, he had not said or even heard most of these words in years. But it was fun, and relaxing, and it was a distraction, something to take their mind off of present conflicts...which was something for which they were both deeply grateful.

Eventually, however, Race had to admit to himself that Flick had absorbed about as much vocabulary as was humanly possible in one sitting, and anyway, they still had papers to sell. He smiled to himself for a moment, watching Flick muttering an especially long and difficult word under her breath, the afternoon sun spotlighting her vivid hair and pert, impish features. Her eyes were the clear, soft blue of a robin's egg, reflections of a summer sky.

"Ya ready ta go back ta sellin', _fiamma__?"_ he asked mischievously.

Flick called a truce in her battle with _arrivederci _to return his smirk. "Dat mean 'Flick'?"

"Nah," Race countered. "Flame."

Flick laughed aloud at that, testing the new word with approval. _"Fiamma._I like it."

"Careful," Race joked, "or yeh'll lose track o' all ya nicknames." He deftly dodged a blow, wondering in the back of his mind whether there was any profession for which dodging was a required skill; if so, Flick had prepared him well for it.

"Dere's only t'ree," she pointed out peevishly, "an' I'se gonna jump fer joy if dis one replaces 'dragon'."

A thoughtful mood was starting to creep over Racetrack now, as he eyed the pale, slender form of the girl by his side.

"Speakin' o' names," he spoke up hesitantly, "what's ya real name, Flick?" It had just occurred to him that he didn't know.

Flick's eyes narrowed at the question. "Flick _is_ my name. Ya got a problem wit it?"

Race rolled his eyes; he was learning to tell when she was seriously mad, ready to blaze into a wildfire, and when it was just her temper reacting instinctively: a mild, harmless "spark".

"Fine, I'll rephrase dat. What'd ya mudda call ya?"

Seeing that there was no way to dodge the question this time, Flick continued to eye her friend hostilely for a few seconds, before dropping her eyes to the ground. Race was startled to see her cheeks tinge slightly in what suspiciously resembled a blush.

"I'll tell ya if you tell me yers," she grumbled.

Now it was Race's turn to blush. _May as well get it oveh wit._ "Anthony," he confessed with a sigh. His hand flew to cover Flick's mouth before she could laugh, though the laughter danced in her eyes just as merrily. "Ev'ryone always called me Tony, dough," he added, believing the diminutive to be a mild improvement.

"Tony Higgins," Flick mused, pushing his hand away and grinning. At his hurt expression, she struggled to straighten her face. "It ain't so bad, Race. Really."

"Yeah, yeah...now let's heah yers."

* * *

Flick abruptly lost the need to suppress laughter; her face smoothed out completely, as blank and solemn as it was when she was gambling, and she directed her gaze at a point on the ground, squinting between two bench slats. Resignedly, she murmured a single syllable.

"What?" Race leaned toward her, enjoying her discomfort. "Gotta speak up dere, Flick, I don't t'ink dey hoid ya in Greenwich Village."

Flick raised her eyes to glare at her tormentor. It was all right for him; he had probably only abandoned his birth name a few years back, and it was likely that some of the other newsboys knew it. _She_ hadn't spoken or even heard hers in ten years, and couldn't even think of a single living person who knew it except Secret.

_"Maeve._ My name's Maeve. A'right?"

She waited for Racetrack's muffled snicker or burst of laughter. To her surprise, neither was forthcoming. Instead, Race stared at her as if he had never seen her before. His only verbal response was a whispered echo.

"Maeve?"

Grimly, Flick nodded.

"Maeve." Slowly, to Flick's growing confusion, Racetrack positively beamed at her. "Flick, dat's a _great_ name! It suits ya. Really, it does." He chuckled. "An' heah ya had me worried it was Mary or Susan or sometin'." He shook his head and tried her full name, as she had tried his. "Maeve O'Grady."

"Maeve Agnes O'Grady," Flick corrected, pleased with his approval, and feeling slightly guilty about making fun of 'Anthony'. "Agnes after me mam."

"Ya mudda?" Surprised, Race frowned at this reference to a person whom he realized Flick had never mentioned before. It was slowly dawning on him just how little he knew about this girl, or at least about her background.

"I barely 'memba her. She died when I was five," Flick explained quickly, twisting a lock of hair around her index finger in an uncharacteristic display of unease.

Race didn't bother with the customary 'I'se sorry', knowing Flick wasn't the type to expect or desire the meaningless words. Instead, he asked gently, "How 'bout ya fadda?"

"Neveh knew 'im. Died 'fore I was born. How 'bout yer parents? Am I de only one who hasta share a life story heah?" Flick's curiosity was piqued.

Racetrack shrugged. "My mudda died when I was seven, an' I ran away. Hoid a couple yeahs latah dat my fadda died in a bar fight, not dat I cared."

Flick raised her eyebrows and thumbed through her stack of papers. _Maybe it's I good t'ing I neveh had a fadda._

"Hey, Flick," Race began hesitantly, avoiding her eyes. "What about Secret?"

As he had expected, her face closed up and hardened at the mention of the recently taboo name. "What about her? I t'ought we wasn't gonna mention 'er."

"Hey, I ain't mentionin' anytin' dat's happened lately. I mean...what about her fam'ly, her past? She ain't neveh said any moah 'bout it den you have. I know she lived in Harlem an' sold papes wit you an' Song fer eight yeahs...but how 'bout befoah dat?"

Flick stood and lifted her bundle of newspapers. It was well past lunchtime, and they hadn't even finished selling the morning edition yet; they would be out late tonight for certain.

"I dunno."

"C'mon," Race sighed, frustrated, as he started gathering his own papes. "Jist tell me, won't 'cha? At least tell me what happened ta her parents, whedda she's an orphan or runaway or what. How private can dat be?"

"But I toldja," Flick insisted, starting briskly down the street so that Race had to trot to keep up, "I dunno. I found Secret when me an' her was eight, an' Song was eleven. Dis guy in da street was bodderin' her, so I punched 'im."

"Big su'prise dere," Race snickered. "Flick from da start."

"You bet. Afta we got away, me an' Song ast 'er questions, what 'er name was an' whedda she had a home an' all dat, but she jist kept shakin' her head an' not tellin' us nothin'."

_"Secret _from da start," Race observed ruefully.

"Right. She kept sayin' 'It's a secret', so dat's what we called 'er. She was our friend an' sellin' partna from den on."

"All dat time," Race marvelled, selecting a corner to settle on and giving the headlines another once-over, _"all dose yeahs_ togedda, close as any pair o' sistahs, an' ya don't even know 'er _name?"_

"Dat's right," Flick confirmed, and for the first time, she was hit with the full reality of her lack of knowledge about her best friend. She shrugged almost defensively. "She's Secret. Dat's da kinda poyson she is. She likes ta keep 'er secrets, an' I ain't neveh gonna question dat."

"Flick," Race groaned, shunting his papes aside and momentarily forgetting his livelihood, "she could be _anyone."_

"Right," Flick snapped, rolling her eyes. "She could be da lost heir o' Brooklyn fer all I know." She winced slightly. "Bad example unda da coicumstances. Now, ya gonna let me go find my own corna or not?"

"Go ahead," Race finally agreed with a philosophical sigh. "T'rough rain an' shine, thick an' thin, tranquility an' chaos, ya gotta keep on carryin' da banna'."

* * *

_"Dis _is wheah we's goin'?"

Wrinkling her nose skeptically, Secret gazed up at the towering form of an apartment building that had seen far better days. The boarded-up windows and painted graffiti seemed to state that all that was missing was a "Condemned" sign on the door. When Mush had told her there was someone he wanted her to meet, she had expected that they would be meeting the person in a restaurant for lunch, not coming right to his home. Nor would she have predicted that this "home" would be in such sad shape.

"Yeah, dis's it," Mush confirmed cheerfully, leading her in through the door. He watched with mild amusement as she glanced around warily, taking in a sparse lobby containing nothing more than a desk and some mismatched furniture with stuffing and springs poking out. Behind the desk sat an ancient-looking woman, head resting on her folded arms, eyes shut, emitting the occasional loud snore.

"Uh...Mush?" The question, _Have__ you gone mad?_ hung in the air.

Smiling to himself and failing to acknowledge Secret's doubts about his sanity, Mush took her arm and continued to guide her, through the lobby and up several flights of creaky dust-frosted stairs. In between the flights were floors of apartments, which Mush ignored until they reached the third floor. Then he guided his thoroughly bewildered charge down a dingy hallway and right up to an apartment door bearing a number too faded to read. Flashing Secret another heart-throb smile, he knocked politely.

The sequence that followed only increased Secret's puzzled state. There was the click of a key turning, and then the door opened just a crack, so that a slender silver chain stretched between door and wall. A pair of large, almond-shaped emerald eyes, fringed in long curling lashes, peered through the crack from a thin, rosy-cheeked face. At the sight of Mush, a delighted smile bloomed on the face, the eyes lit up like a pair of sparklers, and the door snapped shut. There was the scrape of a latch lifting, and it opened wide.

"Mush! I din't know ya was comin'! An' ya brought a friend! Dis must be Secret! Well, c'mon, both o' youse, whatcha waitin' fer?"

Mystified, Secret allowed a grinning Mush to pull her through the door.

Up close, without the obstacle of a door between them, Secret saw that the girl was probably around seventeen. Tall, slender, long-limbed and willowy, she had a strong, supple build of the sort generally belonging to a dancer. Loose, wispy curls of pale silvery-blonde hair cascaded down her back, also looping whimsically over her forehead, around her ears, and even over her ruddy cheeks and warm, compassionate eyes. Even wearing a wrinkled, stained brown house dress with an ugly, faded floral print, she was pretty enough. In fact, Secret realized against her will, she almost resembled a curly-haired, much more feminine version of Song.

And she had now slipped her arms lovingly around Mush, who returned her embrace with an endearing embarassed delight. "Secret," he announced when they had separated, his cheeks turning a deep red, "I'd like ya ta meet my goil, Victoria Madison. Vicky, dis's..."

"Charlotte Callaway." Secret dipped a wobbly curtsy, pretending not to notice Mush's shocked gape, and pushing back her own shock, not to mention dismay, at hearing the name leave her mouth. Even _Flick_ didn't know her real name! "Bedda known as Secret."

"O' course!" Victoria beamed and shook Secret's hand heartily. "Mush tawks about 'cha all da time. I kept wonderin' when I was gonna meet ya."

Secret tried not to show any surprise at this information, but stole a quick glance at Mush. He talked about her all the time? To his _girl?_ How did poor Victoria feel about that? She didn't seem to show any resent, which Secret thought rather admirable, considering her boy had just showed up at her door with another girl who he "talked about all the time".

"Gah!" Suddenly, Mush smacked himself in the forehead, a rather cheesy expression of surprised disappointment plastered on his face. "Vicky, I'se so sorry, I jist rememba'd...dere's, uh, sometin' I gotta do. Could Secret jist eat heah, an' I'll meet 'er back at da distribution centah?" Without waiting for Victoria's answer, he gave her a quick peck on the lips, murmured, "Love ya," and dashed back out the door.

Secret stared after him, wide-eyed and aghast, but Victoria only chuckled drily. Calmly locking and bolting the door, she then turned to the dark-haired girl she had just met, motioning her over to a small, shabbily furnished alcove that seemed to serve as her living room. She sat down in an armchair, motioned Secret to the one across from it, and asked knowingly, "A'right, why'd he bring ya heah?"

Secret sputtered indignantly. "I dunno! He din't say a t'ing on da way heah! Wouldn't even tell me wheah we was goin', jist said dere was someone he wanted me ta meet, an' how he's gone off ta do who knows what--"

But Victoria was shaking her head, amused. "Dat was an excuse, couldn't ya tell? Dere ain't nuttin' he's gotta do. He jist wanted ta leave ya alone wit me...ain'cha got any idea why?"

About to protest adamently that she did not, Secret paused for a moment to reflect.

"Oh," she pronounced. _"Oh._ Dammit."

"A revelation?" Victoria guessed.

"Maybe," Secret replied grimly. "D'ya t'ink dat possibly, if a guy t'ought a friend o' his, who happened ta be a goil, was havin' guy troubles, an' she was in da middle of a cold war wit 'er best friend, he'd t'ink dat de obvious solution was jist ta take 'er ta some odda goil, an dey'd tawk it out?"

"Possibly," Victoria agreed solemnly.

"Damn," Secret repeated eloquently.

"Yeah...male logic. Highly questionable at best," Victoria surmised, and Secret smiled. The sensation was odd; it wasn't something she had ever done often, and especially not lately. Perhaps some small part of Mush's 'questionable' logic wasn't far off the mark after all...there _was_ something comforting in the company of a fellow girl, a girl who she hadn't cruelly insulted the day before.

"So ya havin' guy troubles?" Interest and genuine concern showed in the older girl's face as she rested her elbows on the chair's armrest, leaning her chin in her hands. "I'se hoid so much about ya dat I feel like I already know ya, but I din't realize dat ya was goin' wit someone."

"I ain't," Secret replied quickly, then considered this statement. "Dat is...I don't t'ink I am...I don't _wanna_ be...I don't _t'ink_ I wanna be--"

"Whoa!" Victoria laughed and held up her hands. "Ya really are havin' guy troubles. Mind if I ask who da lucky fella is?"

Secret's eyes drifted around the apartment. "Wouldja groan, slap me across da face, an' pass out cold if I said 'Spot Conlon'?"

And suddenly, it all came out. After keeping her mouth sealed firmly shut for the four people she loved best in the world, Secret found herself babbling the whole story to a virtual stranger, from her first meeting with Spot the previous month and the circumstances that caused her to push him in the river, to her inexplicable fascination with him ever since, to her latest Brooklyn visit...and the painful, mixed-up, controversial matter of her first kiss.

Finally she finished, settling back in her chair and gazing rather helplessly at the girl before her, her face making the statement, 'My life is in your hands.'

For a few moments, Victoria said nothing. She closed her eyes and tapped her upper lip with an index finger, as if mulling over the other girl's monologue. Then she spoke carefully, giving weight to the words she chose.

"An' what e'zactly d'ya feel fer him, Secret?"

The question was one which she would have liked to avoid, but hardly unexpected. She answered as honestly as she could. "Fascination, like I said..." Her face flushed deeply. "Um...lust, I guess. _Obviously _not 'love', seein' as I don't even _know_ da kid, an' I'se prob'ly too young fer dat anyway. But it's woise den not lovin' him...I don't even _like _him! I t'ink he's an arrogant idiot, I don't really care 'bout his feelin's or what 'appens ta him, an' I realize dat 'e took advantage o' me las' night, dat he moved too fast widdout my p'mission. I know all dat. My _logic_ knows it, but..." She offered a wry smile. "My altah ego won't let his face outta my mind."

Victoria nodded and squeezed her hand sympathetically. "It must be real tough. An' I know I jist met ya, an' ya din't ask fer my advice. But if yeh'll listen ta what I t'ink..." Secret nodded earnestly. "...den," Mush's girl continued with a heavy sigh, "I gotta say, hon, I t'ink ya should try ta f'get about 'im. He may not o' actually hoit 'cha, an' it could be dat he neveh would, but wit a kid like dat...wit his reputation, regardin' both fightin' _an'_ goils...it jist ain't woith da risk. Ya know Spot's had da same effect on plenty'a goils dat he's havin' on you, an' it ain't nuttin' ta be ashamed of. But it don't seem like eidda o' youse really cares 'bout de odda, so it'd be best jist ta...let 'im go."

"Ya right." Secret nodded firmly, knowing good sense when she heard her; after all, hadn't it usually been coming from _her_ for most of her life? "Ya absolutely right, Victoria." She shrugged balefully. "I jist wish it was dat simple." Curiously regarding her new confidante, she felt compelled to ask a question. "Vick...what da _you_ look fer in a guy? An' don't jist tell me, 'Mush'," she added with a smile. "I mean, what qualities d'ya say are best in general?"

Once again considering the query carefully before answering, Victoria gave her opinion. "Well," she started, "ya want a guy who respects ya. Who treats ya right, y'know. He's polite, kind, doesn't touch ya when ya don't want it, doesn't move too fast fer ya..." She clicked her tongue pointedly.

"Yeah, yeah," Secret grumbled. "But what else?"

"Well...ya want someone whose poysonality clicks wit yers. Someone who can make ya smile, even when ya feel lousy. Someone who _knows_ what makes ya smile, an' what makes ya cry, an' why ya do da t'ings ya do. Someone who realizes what ya feelin' jist by lookin' at 'cha, an' can predict how yeh'll react ta t'ings 'cause he knows ya so well."

No way to know if Spot measured up on those counts. He hadn't even had a chance to get to know her yet. What Victoria was describing sounded more like an old friend, like Flick or one of the Musketeers; not the wild, dizzy, spontaneous kind of romance that was her only experience thus far.

"An' one moah t'ing," Victoria was saying, leaning forward in her seat and looking Secret straight in the eye. "Da most important t'ing o' all."

"Yeah?" Secret asked eagerly, also leaning forward and hanging on her newly-aquired mentor's every word.

"Ya want a guy who can protect ya. Who's always dere ta defend ya 'gainst anytin', or anyone, who might hoit 'cha. An' who has da poweh ta do dat...da poweh ta keep ya safe. _Always."_

Secret leaned back sharply at this, startled by the intensity of the words, by Victoria's solemn, blazing eyes as she spoke them. For a second, she was speechless, but when she answered, it was in the cold, neutral tone for which she had once been infamous.

"Dat's impossible. No one can protect ya all da time, an' ya shouldn't expect anyone to. Dat's why ya loin ta fight, ta defend yaself. I did, yeahs ago. I don't need no one ta protect me."

Victoria's expressive eyes registered first hurt, then a spark of anger, with a touch of bitterness as well. "Yeah?" She turned her face away. "Well, maybe some o' us ain't so lucky."

Immediately regretting her words, Secret groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, God, I din't mean dat. I sweah, I honestly wasn't t'inkin'. I dunno what's wrong wit me. Yestaday I said sometin' ta my best friend, sometin' jist like dat, completely random an' meanin'less an' horrible, I'se jist losin' friends left an' right heah--"

"Hey!" Turning to face her again, Victoria flashed a weak grin. "Ya ain't lost dis one yet. Don't worry 'bout it. Ya prob'ly right anyway. Ya _can't_ depend on someone else ta protect ya all da time, an' knowin' how ta fight coitainly comes in handy."

_I'll say. Shoah woulda come in handy fer Song. _Her stomach lurched, and she rose quickly, heading for the door. "Well, I gotta be goin', buyin' de evenin' edition an' all. It was great tawkin' ta ya, dough, t'anks so much fer listenin', an' de advice...maybe Mush knew what he was doin' afta all..."

As she reached for the latch, though, Victoria held her back.

"But ya was s'posta eat lunch heah--"

"I'll get sometin' on da street, no problem--"

"Secret..." Seeing the girl's urgency to escape, Victoria sighed. "Jist let me tell ya one las' t'ing, a'right?"

Sighing, Secret waited with her hand still on the doorknob. "Yeah?"

"Mush really cares about 'cha. Moah den you know, I t'ink." Chuckling at Secret's expression, she clarified the statement. "Not in a way dat'd make me jealous. I mean, he cares about 'cha as a friend, as a poyson. He's known ya a liddle longa den he's known me, y'know, an' he mentioned ya da foist day we met...da beautiful, quiet, witty goil dat jist came ta his lodgin' house wit her friend." Ignoring Secret's blush and rolled eyes, she continued. "Dat's who ya are ta him, Secret...a beautiful friend like no one else he's eveh met befoah, someone he loves wit all 'is heart. Jist like I'se got my own special place in his heart, so d'you; a different place, but jist as important. As long as ya got a friend like Mush, yeh'll be safe from anythin', I'se shoah o' it. Jist wanted ya ta know."

Glad that the speech was over, Secret nodded and mustered a smile. "T'anks. Dat means a lot ta me. An' t'anks again fer what ya done fer me t'day. I needed it, moah den ya know." Impulsively, she hugged Victoria, a gesture which was warmly returned. Then the door was unlocked for her, and she slipped out into the hallway. Watching the door close, and listening again to the turning of the key and the creak of the latch, she wondered who this tender, delicate creature needed protection from.

Then she thought of the one part of Spot's kiss which she had not related to Victoria: the dark shape on the other side of the bridge, the lips that had mouthed her name. And she wondered the same of herself.

_"As long as ya got a friend like Mush, yeh'll be safe from anythin'." _Vicky had seemed so confident of that, Secret mused as she made her way back down the stairs, through the lobby, and out into the street. But did she herself believe it? Her new friend had also said that to protect you, your boy needed power. Power that she was sure could not be claimed by any of her friends, not even the so-heroic Mush.

Pondering all this, Secret was paying very little attention to her surroundings. So she was blissfully unaware of being followed until a hand clamped around her waist and shoved her against a factory wall.

A single blinding, crippling flash of sheer panic swept over her. Her heart leapt to her throat, the blood roaring in her ears in what seemed more of a smooth, shrill buzz than a rhythm of separate beats. Fear blasted through every vein, screamed through every pore, invaded every cell; and with fear came adrenaline. Tearing away from the hand that held her, Secret never even thought of running; she _flew._ It seemed in her muddled, horror-stricken mind that her feet did not even touch the ground, that she simply glided through the air in what felt, despite her breakneck speed, like unbearable slow motion. For even as her velocity increased with every step, her pursuer seemed always to be right at her heels, breathing down her neck.

The streets swam by like a painting dipped in water, blurred together in senseless stripes of faded color. Not one landmark, great or small, registered in Secret's mind until her eyes snagged onto something so familiar, so unmistakable, that a single word snapped her frozen brain back to life: _bridge._

There was an old legend, some purely irrelevant corner of her mind recited, that crossing a bridge over running water would save you from a ghost, goblin, bogey, or anything supernatural. That was the kind of hope that swelled within her upon the sight of the monumental structure. Without a split second to spare for thought, she barreled across the Brooklyn Bridge for the third time in her life, with such desperation that a cheetah would probably have been left in her dust.

Behind her, the man who had triggered such terror in the girl wavered for the first time, his face a picture of disgusted outrage. For he may as well have been a ghost, goblin, or bogey; no one in his right mind charges uninvited into Brooklyn.

Not bothering to glance over her shoulder to see if her gamble had worked, Secret continued to fly over the ground. She had nearly arrived at the nearby docks when she collided painfully with a second figure, bringing both of them crashing painfully to the ground. There she bent over double, clutching her stomach and gasping, face the color of a cherry and drenched with sweat, her body numb and sickeningly drained after the powerful adrenaline rush that had carried her to safety.

"Well, well...look who's in a big hurry ta tell his royal Majesty she's back ta stay."

Sprawled on the ground in front of her was none other than Dagger, the hostile Brooklyn newsgirl who had scared her half to death the night before. Now Secret wouldn't have cared if it had been Spot himself, or Morris Delancey, or a serial killer, for that matter. Anything was better than what she had left behind.

"Don't be stupid, _chica." _The accent made Secret look up; it was the petite Spanish girl with the laughing brown eyes, the one they called Snake Eyes. "She's not here to stay." She extended a hand to Secret, helping her up and leading her the last few feet to the docks, so she could collapse against the railing and catch her breath.

"Are you?"

Once her lungs felt ready to function again and most of the color had faded from her cheeks, Secret wiped a sleeve across her damp face and regarded Snake Eyes' anxious expression.

The face of the man who had pinned her against the wall, held her there effortlessly for an endless moment, like a helpless butterfly trapped in a net, flashed before Secret's eyes.

Her current location slowly sunk in, followed by Dagger's words, and the question Snake Eyes had just phrased.

_"Ya want a guy who can keep ya safe."_

Slowly, heavily, resigned and horrified, Secret nodded.

"Yeah," she whispered hoarsely. "I'se heah ta stay."


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N: **I hate this chapter. :-/ Nothing happens in it. Nothing at all. It's all expository-ish and emotion-ish and such. But you guys deserved an update so much that I had to provide one, however pathetic. You also deserve to beat me to death, so I'm working on getting a name change. That should keep me safe from my dear Chelsea, and Scamley Elliot, and anyone else who's...wait a second...blast it all, Tree knows my address...I'm doomed.

**September 23, 1899, ****Half Past Noon**

**Manhattan**

Mush waited fifteen minutes at the square before deciding that Secret would not be joining him. He smiled to himself as he sauntered down the street, brightly rattling off the decent headlines of the afternoon edition. This just went to show how brilliant his idea had been; Secret was probably baring her soul to Victoria and doing some essential female bonding. Of course she would be too busy to keep the haphazard appointment he had set.

He spent the afternoon and evening selling papers in blissful ignorance, attributing the continued lack of Secret to the fact that this was, after all, New York. Doubtless she had chosen to sell on her own after the little bonding session, or come across one or two of their mutual selling partners. The fact that Mush hadn't run into her was no cause for alarm. He was still in a cheerful state of mind when he met up with Blink back on Duane Street after finishing his sales.

"Mush!" The blonde boy smiled a greeting as they approached the lodging house together. "Been lookin' all oveh da borough fer ya. Wheah on oith's Secret? Wheah'd ya take 'er, anyway?"

"Took 'er ta meet me goil," Mush replied proudly. "Left 'er at Vicky's apartment ta tawk. Victoria prob'ly helped 'er sort out whateveh was bodderin' her, don'cha t'ink?"

Blink shrugged rather dubiously. "Guess anytin's woith a try at dis point."

"Any sign o' Race or Flick?"

"Nah, but you know dose two. Dey'll find a race, or a pokah game, or some nice romantic getaway..." Grinning, Blink dodged an elbow in the ribs for that last suggestion. "...an' be gone half da night if dey feels like it."

With that, he flung open the door of the lodging house, the two friends entered the lobby, and their hearts simultaneously turned to lead.

The room was in a state suggesting nothing short of disaster. Everywhere, newsboys sat or stood, alone or in pairs or larger clusters, assuming various positions of dejection and resigned doom. Chins were cradled mournfully, faces hidden in hands, fists clenched, fingers restlessly drumming surfaces. Dark mutterings filled the lobby like the ominous buzzing of an angry beehive. Mush and Blink exchanged panicked glances. Though these mutterings were a slight improvement on the shroud-like silence of the occasion both were recalling, this scene was still reminiscent of the bunkroom after the two of them had proclaimed Flick a murderer.

"I knew it," Blink babbled in horror. "Mass suicide! Race, Flick, an' Secret went an' jumped off da Brooklyn Bridge togedda."

Turning away from a tense discussion with Crutchy and Snoddy, it was a Jack, pale and grim, who first noticed the new arrivals and addressed their confusion.

"Nah, it ain't come ta dat yet," he said, waving Blink and Mush over. "Flick an' Race are jist out late sellin' or gamblin', I guess. But Secret...well, suicide's da best woid fer it."

"Oh God." An ashen-faced, fiercely guilty Mush sank into the chair across from Jack, Blink taking the seat next to him. "What's she done?"

"A kid came by a few minutes ago," Crutchy took over. "A Brooklyn newsie, 'bout nine or ten. He told us..." The boy faltered and turned plaintively to Snoddy.

"He told us," Snoddy finished gravely, "dat Secret's in Brooklyn. An' she ain't comin' back."

* * *

"It's hopeless, Race," Flick declared through a deep, disgruntled yawn. "An' ya _know_ it's hopeless when _I'se_ willin' ta admit defeat. No one's interested in politics, local events, or even scandals at dis unholy houah."

"Sounds ta me like da flame's boinin' out," was Racetrack's teasing response, earning himself a smack in the face with his partner's hat. "Y'know, I oughta get myself painted as a target, one giant bull's-eye. It'd make t'ings even easiah fer ya."

The two hapless newsies were dragging themselves down a dingy Manhattan street, sleepily offering their last few papers to the shady nocturnal clientele. Unbeknownst to both of them, a small boy was eavesdropping on their conversation. Knots gulped as he timidly crept out of the shadows to block their path. _Why _did he always get stuck playing messenger? Just because he was fast, good with directions, and small enough to be bullied into it? In any case, he had dropped the bombshell on the Duane Street lodging house as Spot had instructed, and now there were only these two stragglers left to inform. Knots wouldn't have bothered with them, but Secret had been adament that Flick in particular be told.

* * *

The newsies halted at the sudden appearance of an obstacle.

"Ya want sometin', kid?" Flick asked lightly, trying not to sound quite as menacing as usual while she sized up a scrawny boy with ruffled brown hair.

"Yeah, um..." The youngster shifted nervously from side to side, eyes darting toward Race and then settling on Flick, staring openly at this legend. "I got a message fer youse."

"Yeah?" Race didn't sound remotely menacing, merely guarded and puzzled. "From who?"

_Ooh boy, _thought Knots. "From, uh, Spot Conlon."

As he'd expected, both of them tensed, and Flick's fists clenched reflexively.

"If he's lookin' fer payment fer any age-old pokah game, he can come see us 'imself an' talk it oveh," she challenged, ignoring the fact that Race winced in firm disapproval of that idea.

"N-no, it ain't dat..." Knots took a step back; Flick tended to have that effect on people. "It's just...he wanted ta let youse know...he wanted ta pass on da message dat Secret's moved ta Brooklyn."

* * *

"I wouldn't o' hoit 'im," Flick grumbled, storming up the ladder that led past the lodging house's fire escape and onto the roof. "He was jist a kid."

"Flick, I don't trust ya ta stick ta ya morals when ya eyes are dat shade," Race replied, examining his sore arm, a souvenir of restraining her while Knots had made his hasty getaway.

They completed the climb in silence, resuming their dialogue only when they had seated themselves on the rooftop, leaning back on their elbows with a view of the hazy stars.

"I neveh t'ought it'd come ta dis," Flick whispered into the night. "Not like dis, not so sudden, widdout...she ain't even got 'er stuff! No clothes or nuttin'. She'll hafta come back fer dose, at least."

"Sometin' happened," Race stated quietly. Flick snorted.

"I'll say. She an' Conlon got all oveh each odda las' night an' declahed vows o' etoinal love. She figuah'd dat radda den come right out an' tell us, she'd be a cowahd an' run off soon as she got a chance. Din't hafta face any o' us, see?"

"She _will _hafta eventually, an' she knows dat," Race argued. "It's sometin' else, Flick. She ain't jist doin' dis outta some blind passion fer da leadeh o' Brooklyn."

"Ya'd like ta t'ink not, wouldn't 'cha? But wit dat way she's been actin' lately, I'se afraid Spot's all da motive she needs."

They sat in silence for a time, before Race selected the old fallback, producing his faithful deck of cards. That night, playing by diluted moonlight, a shivering, dark-eyed Flick O'Grady lost a poker game to Racetrack Higgins for the first time.

* * *

**September 24, 1899, ****6:00 A.M.**

**Brooklyn**

Secret was awakened in a strange bunk, in a strange room, by a din fit to knock the angels out of heaven. Her original impression was a mob of ten thousand or so. The reality was six Brooklyn newsgirls.

"What time is it?" Secret groaned pitifully, hoping to be heard over the frenzied shouts and conversation, footsteps pounding every which way, and pillows crashing into the faces of those who couldn't dodge quick enough.

"Six A.M.," answered a wry, familiar voice. Secret peeled her eyes open to see Bat, leader of the Brooklyn girls, standing over her bunk. "Rise an' shine, Manhattan princess. _Dis _is when Brooklyn newsies start da day."

A venomous snicker sounded from the small washroom. Through the patially open door, Secret caught a glimpse of Dagger brushing her hair and smirking. Suddenly, she found herself grabbed by both hands and dragged out of bed in one energetic tug. Staggering before she was able to stand, she stared, bleary-eyed, into a wickedly grinning face.

_"Buenos dias, chica loca! Que tal?"_

"Snake, it's too oyly fer Spanish," protested a blonde in a red blouse and skirt, who Secret didn't recognize.

At this, an unnaturally chipper Mulberry, smoothing wrinkles from her modest grey dress, shook her head and translated. "She said, 'Good mornin', crazy goil, how are ya?'"

While Snake Eyes glared at the indignity of someone else understanding her native tongue, a dusty shape wriggled triumphantly out from under a bunk, standing and bearing a missing shoe. "Dis place becomes moah of a pigsty ev'ry day," Broom pronounced. "I'se gonna be cleanin' up dis mornin's messes alone fer da next week."

"No one eveh ast ya to," Dagger pointed out sweetly, emerging from the washroom with her hair brushed to a glossy sheen. Offhandly, she added, "Hey, Val, why ain'cha introduced yaself yet? Shoahly ya ain't shy o' our newest goil?"

At this, the bunkroom went oddly quiet. The blonde in red stopped halfway to the washroom, and when she turned toward Secret, her cheeks were flushed crimson.

"I'se sorry," she murmured, sounding sincere, but awkward. "I'se Valentine. Welcome ta Brooklyn, Secret."

Her smile held traces of pain, an emotion Secret could read all too well. And her eyes...her gentle hazel eyes contained a warning.

"C'mon, _chica!"_ Snake Eyes broke the spell of silence, pulling Secret toward the washroom. "I'll lend ya a dress."

Dressing and washing mechanically alongside the other girls, Secret might have observed a few points of interest: soapy water "accidentally" splashed in her eyes by Dagger, frequent furtive glances from Valentine, a brief but intense muttered argument between Bat and Snake Eyes. Yet she missed it all, barely even noticing when a tiny, owl-eyed girl seemed to step out of the woodwork as they streamed out of the bunkroom. Secret had other things on her mind--namely, the constant repitition of the sentence, _Dis's mad...mad...mad._

"Good mornin', milady. Sleep well?"

Secret's stomach turned to ice water. Naturally, in the roaring throng of boys spilling out of the lodging house, the handful of girls stood out like sore thumbs. But she had still clung to the hope that he would not be so quick to find her.

Mastering her frostiest voice, she answered. "I toldja las' night, Spot. Dis--me stayin' heah has--"

"--nuttin' ta do wit me," the boy finished. Smirking, he took her arm and led her down the street. His hat was set at a careless angle, letting the morning sun glint on his golden hair.

"Sell wit me t'day?"

Instantly, Secret shoved down an enthusiastic 'yes', a sigh of longing, and the half-relieved, half-frustrated notion that neither of them had yet eluded to the incident on the bridge.

"Can't. Gotta go back ta Manhattan ta get my stuff. An'...ta say goodbye." She flinched. "Guess I won't be able ta sell da mornin' edition."

Her stomach growled loudly in protest. She hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous morning, and hadn't sold the evening before.

_Whadda ya know? Looks like I'se gonna stahve. Me, da goil who's always been so sensible 'bout money an' su'vival._

Spot chuckled, tightening his grip on her arm. "So I'll come wit ya. We can sell an' pick up sometin' ta eat on da way."

Secret opened her mouth with only two words in mind: _absolutely not. _She was _not _going to be travelling with an escort, much less with Spot Conlon as an escort. And the cocky way he phrased it as a statement instead of a request further ground her nerves.

But then she remembered why she had come to Brooklyn in the first place. Through gritted teeth, she forced an aquiescent, "Shoah."

The distribution center came into view then, and Spot, with a grin and a last squeeze of Secret's hand, vanished to the front of the line.

"Toyin' wit his Highness awready?"

Secret jumped; how _did_ the girl keep sneaking up on her like that?

"Face it, liddle goil," Dagger oozed in that voice of crystalized honey. "Ya want him too bad ta play hard ta get."

Secret felt the heat rise in her cheeks, but she forced it back, retaining a countenance of marble.

"Actually," she countered calmly, craning her neck to address this giant, "I ain't came close ta fallin' fer Spot's so-called 'charms.' Don't take ya own mistakes out on me."

Livid, Dagger drew back her fist to deliver what would have been a dizzying blow, had it not been caught in a slender brown hand.

"What d'you know, Dag?" Snake Eyes cocked her head, a small, tight smile on her face. "The kitten bites."

From the mocking gleam in Snake's brown eyes, Secret had a feeling that she wasn't the only "biting kitten" around here. Dagger snarled and shoved Snake Eyes back, nearly knocking the smaller girl to the ground. But she seemed to decide that two weren't worth her time, and stalked off in her disgusted-lioness mode.

"T'anks," Secret gasped somewhat shakily, realizing how close she had just come to being pounded on her first morning in Brooklyn. Her gratitude was distracted, however, as her gaze drifted to the gnarled old man who had finally finished counting out Spot's papes, which apparently included a stack for Secret. She watched Spot shove his way through the crowd toward her, brandishing his cane to clear a path, then returned her gaze to her rescuer.

Snake Eyes, regarding her casually, shrugged. "You were doing fine on your own." She paused, seeming to consider. "You know, Secret...those icy eyes of yours see right through _her."_ She jerked her head at the retreating Dagger, then, with a wave of her hand, indicated the approaching Spot.

"But when you're with _him..._they're blind, _chica._ Blind."

* * *

**Same Day, ****12:00 ****Noon**

**Manhattan**

"How d'ya know she'll come durin' lunch?" Blink demanded of Flick as she and the Three Musketeers trooped into their lodge's lobby.

"I don't," Flick snapped, perching on the couch, where the boys joined her with the meger meals they'd purchased on the street. "But it's likely 'nough, ain't it? It'd take 'er da mornin' ta get heah if she sold on da way."

"She might come t'night," Race suggested.

"Wit ev'ryone heah?" Flick snorted. "I t'ink not. She ain't about ta face da whole lodgin' house."

"I went ta see Victoria oyliah," Mush informed them around a mouthful of apple. "She wouldn't tell me what she an' Secret tawked about yestaday. Said it wasn't her place ta. But she said Secret seemed fine when she left."

"'Course she was fine," Flick said scathingly. "She was off ta move in wit her loveh boy."

_"Flick!"___

All three of the others jumped at this outburst; for it came from none other than shy, gentle Mush.

"S'madda wit _you?"_ Flick demanded, utterly fed up with being told off.

"She's been ya best friend fer yeahs," Mush reminded her, quietly again, but angrily. "Can't ya have a liddle moah sympathy, 'stead o' tawkin' 'bout 'er like she's some whore?"

Race and Blink each had to grab one of Flick's hands to keep her from hitting Mush.

_"Calma, _Fiamma," Race soothed earnestly. They'd continued their Italian lessons while selling.

Flick glared and twisted free of her friends, but reluctantly spared a cringing Mush. "I'll stay calm," she hissed in reply to the foreign words, "if da rest o' youse do."

Then, without warning, the door opened, Secret stepped into the lobby, and a promise made a split second before was broken in the blink of an eye.

"YOU!"

In a flash, Flick was flying at Secret, clutching the girl's shoulders in an iron grip, and looking more than ready to soak her within an inch of her life. "You IDIOT, you SCAB, you TRAITAH, you filthy liddle--"

"FLICK!" All three Musketeers had to pull her back this time. And it was then that Spot chose to leave his vantage point just outside the open door, enter the lobby, and step protectively in front of Secret; though, in contrast to Secret's startled shame, he merely looked amused.

"Heya, dragon. Been a while, huh? Coupla yeahs, in fact."

The three boys promptly let go of Flick to stare in amazement. Luckily, she was too shocked to attack again. Her jaw flapped several times before coherent speech emerged.

"Ya brought HIM!?"

Spot sneered and draped an arm over Secret's shoulders. "Who says _I _din't bring _her?"_

Secret swallowed. "Flick, I--"

_"What?" _Flick growled, face red and eyes stormy. "Ya _what?_Go on, make ya excuses, we'd all love ta heah 'em."

"I'se shoah ya would," Spot smoothly interjected, "but we jist came ta pick up--"

"Will ya shuddup an' let 'er tawk fer ha'self!?"

Five mouths gaped incredulously at a flushed, frustrated, furious-looking Racetrack. Spot's gape, however, quickly turned to an ominous glare, and Secret, seeing things going from bad to worse, dredged up an ability she was afraid she'd lost.

"You," she pointed at Spot, "out," she indicated the door. "Please," she added hastily at his expression. "Dey got a right ta yell at me, Flick's even got a right ta hit me if she still wants ta, an' we all need ta tawk. In private."

For a moment, Spot looked as if he might just ignore her and bash Race's skull in. But instead he smiled coldly and said, with pointed sarcasm, "Fer you, love."

Loping out of the lodging house, he tossed over his shoulder to Race a threatening, _"We _can tawk lateh."

Only Spot was surprised when it was Mush who answered, with an equally icy, "Yeah...maybe we can _all _tawk lateh."

Once an angry and rather mystified Brooklynite had vanished out the door, Flick spun on Secret again, challenging the stricken girl with a single syllable: "Why?"

Secret gulped and tried an evasion. "I hafta get my--"

Blink gestured triumphantly toward a chair, on which the four of them had piled Secret's few clothes and belongings into a bag that morning, eliminating the need for her to go up to the bunkroom.

"Oh." She gulped again. "Uh, t'anks." Glancing at the door, she continued in a stronger tone, "Look, guys, ya can't go pickin' fights wit Spot oveh dis. It ain't like he's kidnappin' me or sometin'. Youse jist gonna get yaselves soaked--"

"Aw, Secret, din't know ya cared," Race interrupted acidly.

"All o' youse shuddup," Flick ordered, grabbing Secret's arm and jerking the traitor around to face her. "Ya still ain't answa'd my question."

Secret's bright eyes sought the floor, but Flick barreled on, neither loosening her grip nor softening her voice.

"Why? Why are ya leavin' Manhattan when we's been so happy heah? Why are ya leavin' us--" She swept her arm, encompassing herself and the three boys. "--our...our _fam'ly, _when we'd all die fer each odda?" Why are ya leavin' _me..." _Her voice caught, and everyone found an excuse to look away. "...afta all we's been t'rough togedda?"

All eyes were on Secret now, and she met them with trepidation. Such a question deserved a very impressive answer if she wanted to keep her friends, and what answer could she give? They didn't want to hear about her obvious infatuation with Brooklyn and its leader. And as for the main reason, the stubborn pursuer who struck such horror into her soul...

_Dey'd worry demselves ta death. Dey'd all wanna go afta him fer me, an' God, deyre crazy enough ta try an' do it. An dey'd see...Flick'd see...what a cowahd I am._

Finally, she took a deep breath, met her best friend's eyes, and settled on one simple sentence.

"I ain't as strong as you, Flick."

Stunned, Flick finally let go of her arm, staring as if she'd never seen her before.

_Wheah did dat come from?_

"Dere's sometin' important behind all dis," Blink noted. It wasn't a question. "Can't 'cha jist loin ta be honest wit us, like Flick did?"

Flick shifted guiltily at this, one finger brushing her black eye, but Secret was too busy responding to notice.

"I'se sorry, guys. I really am. I know youse desoive moah'n dis. But dis's sometin' I gotta handle on my own."

"Ya mean sometin' Spot's gotta handle fer ya," Race corrected quietly. Secret tensed, but didn't answer. Instead, she addressed Flick.

"Look, I'se goin', an' nuttin' ya say can stop me. But I'd radda go knowin' we's still friends. Dat yeh'll visit, an' I can come back ta visit you. Dat ya f'give me. Or," she added frankly, "ya can finally go ahead an' smack me."

For a moment, Flick looked sincerely tempted. But then she closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, opened them, exhaled, and shook her head.

"I ain't dat far gone yet," she proclaimed, and Secret's shoulders relaxed. "As fer f'givin' ya..." Ignoring the four curious onlookers, the redhead produced from her pocket a pair of mismatched wooden dice.

"Odd numba, yes; even numba, no," she announced, and tossed them on the floor. A few dizzy flips, and two clusters of dots stared up at her. Two on the red die, and three on the white die.

"Hey," Race exclaimed suspiciously, "ain't dose dice mi--"

Smoothly, Flick scooped the stolen dice back into her pocket, then, in a move none of them was prepared for, pulled Secret into a hug.

"I'se moah mad at 'cha right now den I'se eveh been," she informed her friend gruffly, "but da dice have spoken. I'll miss ya, goil."

"I'll miss ya too..." Secret blinked a few times, till a shimmery cast left her eyes. "Keep outta trouble," she muttered, faltering.

"You need dat advice moah'n I do now."

Mush was next. He hugged Secret as warmly as Flick had, though the pain in his eyes was clear.

"If Conlon eveh does anytin' ta ya," he said fiercely, "if he even _touches_ ya--"

"He won't," Secret assured him, wondering whether he meant 'touches violently' or 'touches at all', and afraid that it was most likely the latter. "An' if he eveh did, ya know poifectly well I'd punch 'im in da face an' get da hell outta dere."

Mush smiled a little at that; it sounded so much like the old Secret.

"T'anks fer takin' me ta Victoria," she added sincerely. "She's a real nice goil."

"I know," Mush agreed dreamily, then frowned. "Don't seem like dat tawk didja much good, dough."

Finally, Secret turned to Blink and Race. Both turned away. She had expected that reaction from those two, but it still hurt.

"I'll, uh...miss youse too," she informed them. "Hope youse visit sometime. Widdout messin' wit Spot," she felt compelled to add.

"We'll all visit," Flick promised. "Not shoah 'bout dat last request, dough."

Nodding resignedly, Secret took a step toward the two boys who refused to look at her, but that was all it took to send Blink tearing across the lobby and up the stairs to the bunkroom. Flick rolled her eyes, but looked as if she didn't really blame him.

"Guess dat's our cue." The dragon gave Secret a nod, but no goodbye--she had never cared for goodbyes--and followed Blink's lead. Mush trailed behind her, waving to Secret and sneaking backward glances until he vanished from sight. This left Secret alone in the lobby with Racetrack, who was still facing the wall.

"Race..." she started, voice strangled with the tears she was fighting back.

After a few tense seconds of silence, he spoke, coldly and unreadably.

"We'll save ya bunk fer ya. Come back an' take it if ya eveh need ta. Window'll be unlocked ev'ry night, no questions ast."

And with that, and a last look of pure disgust, he too headed up to the bunkroom.

Secret clenched her teeth, swallowed the lump in her throat, scooped the bag of items from the chair, and left the lobby to join an impatient Spot outside, waiting to walk her...home.

**A/N:** (cringe) I know. I hate it too. But now that Secret is _finally _settled into Brooklyn, I can at last start getting to some of my favorite parts of this story, parts I've been planning for over a year. Believe me, this thing has a plot. Everything will come together eventually, from Italian lessons to mismatched dice. Spot's gonna get his POV back soon. (As are Race and Flick, for that matter. This was quite a Secret chapter, which is probably why it annoyed me so much.) Spot and Secret's relationship is gonna get much more developed, Race and Flick's troubles (and not-so-troubled moments) are far from over, Flick and Jack shall meet again, and I haven't forgotten Secret's stalker, or Queens, or Scamp. In short, all this shameless plugging is a desperate attempt to hang onto some very disgruntled readers who are doubtless thoroughly fed up with an update every few months.

This will be updated again this week. No, you deserve better. At least two more chapters this week. GUARANTEED. I will sign that statement. _Flare Higgins. _There. My promises are worth zip and I know it, but I just signed this one with the name of my beloved...and that, my dears, is a vow I dare not break.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**September 24, 7:30 P.M.**

The borough of Queens welcomed Flick about as warmly as a coffin would welcome a corpse. Not that anything else was to be expected from a borough torn apart by newsie anarchy, struck by a merciless rash of pickpockets, and crawling with thugs who were currently after Flick's blood.

Leaning against the door of a small, darkened shop, she glanced fearfully up and down the deserted street, eyes still adjusting to the evening shadows rapidly replacing the fading sunlight. Every muscle in her body was tensed, adrenaline rushing through her veins even as she stood stationary in the quiet street. This was madness, sheer madness; but what else had her life been these past few days?

It was Secret's doing, this fresh insanity of hers; Secret and that blasted farewell scene. After Secret and Spot had departed, and after Flick and the Musketeers had cooled down in the bunkroom, they had all sold like automatons, scattered on their various neighboring corners, changing position only to sprint to the distribution center for the next edition. When they were all sold out, the return to the lodging house hadn't been something Flick had felt she could face. Even as she had made her weak excuse to the boys, claiming she had a poker game set up when she knew the lie was written all over her face, her true destination had been clear in her mind. Since the incident in Queens the previous night, she had been resolved to find out all she could about the state of the borough and her own place on its newsboys' hit list. It was wise, of course, to know your enemy; but to know him on his own turf for the second night in a row wasn't exactly a sound policy.

_Well, I neveh was known ta plan t'ings out all simple an' safe, _she mused, jumping a foot in the air when one of the shop's loose shutters banged in a phantom breeze.

"Oh, dis coitainly resembles McKinley's Casino," a dry voice commented from the other side of the shop.

With a gasp and another violent start, Flick spun in the direction of the voice, backed up so fast that she tripped and nearly toppled over, shot out a hand to steady herself against the storefront, and swore in two languages, one recently acquired, as a thoroughly amused figure stepped around the corner of the store.

_"Race," _she gasped, so weak with relief that there was little room for anger yet, "ya tryin' ta give me a heart attack!? What da _hell_ are ya doin' heah!?"

"Followin' ya." Racetrack stated the obvious, though his smirk melted into mild concern as he realized just how pale she'd gone. "I'se tiah'd o' pretendin' ta buy ya lies when ya can't lie woith spit, an' havin' ta worry 'bout 'cha when we's all got Secret ta worry 'bout awready. I'se tiah'd o' dis no-trust policy. So now it's my toin fer a question: what da hell are ya doin' in Queens, alone, in da dark, when ya know poifectly well what it's like dese days?"

Staring aghast at the small Italian before her, arms crossed, smoke curling from his inseparable cigar, eyes stubbornly expectant, Flick groaned inwardly. As usual, she had failed to figure something into her impulsive harebrained scheme; in this case, the tenacity of a close friend. _Not dat I can't match it, o' course._

"De answa ta dat question's a bit too long ta go inta at dis pa'ticulah place an' time. Go home an' I'll tell ya when I get back."

"Yer da one dat chose da place, an' now's as good a time as any."

Irked by his persistence, Flick glared. "Look, ya lucky if I end up tellin' ya at all. Ya had no right ta follow me heah, an' ya got no right ta poke inta my poysonal biz'ness. Bein' friends don't automatically mean I gotta—"

"—trust me?" Race finished angrily, but in a much lower tone, reminding Flick of where they were and the fact that she'd been throwing caution to the winds. Caution wasn't generally of much concern to her, but that was when she was alone.

"Damn it, Race," she whispered fiercely, her eyes never leaving his despite her apprehension about what might lurk in the shadows surrounding them, "I _do _trust ya, don'cha get it? I trust ya ta get yaself hoit tryin' ta help me."

In the sickly, flickering light of a nearby street lamp, first shock, then suspicion and fear painted Race's baby face.

"Fiamma," he said softly, his normally dormant Italian accent surfacing to make the pet name even more gentle and beautiful, "'less ya wanna give _me _a heart attack worryin' fer ya, I t'ink ya bedda tell me what's goin' on now."

Whether it was the fact that her nerves were completely shot due to their location, or because it occurred to her that this kid probably meant more to her than anyone else in the world right now, Flick knew she was beaten. They weren't going to get out of here, and Race wasn't going to back down, until he got the full story out of her. And out it came: her flight from the tracks after their fight the previous night, how she had gotten herself lost in Queens, the real explanation for her black eye, the appearance of the knife, her meeting with Scamp in the alley ("dat liddle idiot from Central Park, 'memba him?"), his offer to lead her home, his treacherous disappearance, and her eventual return to Manhattan on her own. All she left out was the part the "magic" dice had played in her escape, for fear that Racetrack would again remember that they rightfully belonged to him.

By the time she finished, having sent at least two dozen furtive glances in every direction during the narration, Race was staring at her with an expression she could not recall ever seeing on his face before, or on any face in a long time.

"Dey pulled a _knife _on ya?" he whispered, brown eyes wide and grave in a face mere inches away from hers.

Flick shrugged, puzzled. "Yeah...not a great experience, but it ain't like it's da foist time someone's done dat."

"It's da foist time someone's done it since _I'se_ known ya! Or is it? Have dere been _odda _times ya f'got ta mention?" Now Race was the one forgetting himself, his voice rising and even trembling slightly. Flick, much alarmed by what she saw as an extreme overreaction, clapped her hand over his mouth. Race, getting the point, pushed it aside and lowered his voice, but it remained solemn and intense.

"Flick, look at me, will ya?" She did. "Ya coulda been killed las' night. An' ya neveh even told me 'bout it. Ya coulda _died! _Don't dat mean anytin' ta ya?"

Looking at him, listening to him, and finally understanding just what he was feeling, Flick gulped softly. Her head reeled with a piece of knowledge she'd been neglecting, ignoring; looking away, she answered him hoarsely. "'Course it does. I jist din't know..."

"What?" Race frowned curiously when she trailed off.

"Neveh mind." _I just din't know it meant so much ta __**you.**_

Race sighed. "Look, now dat we's established what happened las' night, what in da _woild_ are ya doin' back heah t'night?"

"I came ta find da Queens lodgin' house an' do a bit'a spyin'. I ain't gonna be able ta get dat knife outta my mind till I'se got a full pitcha o' what's goin' on in dis crazy borough, so I'se gonna try an' find out, an' dere's no way you can stop me."

"Maybe not," Race admitted ruefully. "But I can go wit 'cha."

"Ya honestly t'ink fer a second I'd let ya do dat?"

"I know dat if ya don't, I can always go back ta da lodgin' house—"

"I wish ya _would—"_

"—an' get Jack."

A long pause ensued.

"Damn you, Anthony Higgins."

~*~

When Flick had been intending this as a solo mission, her main concern had been simply finding the place. Considering how hopelessly lost she had become last time she'd ventured into Queens, she had not been looking forward to the prospect. But Race, as luck would have it, knew the borough almost as well as his own, and deftly guided her through the more hospitable streets. Little was said on the way, though their expressions said enough. Racetrack's smug grin clearly teased, _What would you have done widdout me? _Flick's sullen scowl replied, _I'd'a found a way, I always do, I most coitainly did __**not**__ need __**you.**_

Words spoken aloud, however, would have been an unnecessary and downright foolish method of calling attention to themselves. Both were nervous enough as it was, constantly glancing over their shoulders, tensing or starting at the slightest noise, and shying off to an inconspicuous patch of darkness at every fellow nocturnal pedestrian, each seen as a potentially hostile native.

"So what e'zactly are ya plannin' ta do once we get dere?" Race muttered at one point, when they had flattened themselves against a building to watch a ragged elderly lady shuffle laboriously by. "Didja even _t'ink _o' dat? If dey ain't out late sellin'...an' we ain't seen one yet...da newsies'll prob'ly all be in bed by da time we get dere. So I take it we's gonna gaddah loads o' useful info'mation by peerin' in some window an' watchin' 'em snore?"

"Race," Flick answered through gritted teeth, "ya want a remindah o' how ya ended up on dis crazy, pointless quest in da foist place? _Ya blackmailed me!"_

"Shhh," Race pleaded frantically, scanning the street in semi-panic. "Good point."

Silence prevailed again until the two newsies stealthily turned a corner to find a small brick building hulking almost directly in front of them. The words "Queens Newsboys Lodging House" were spelled out on a brass plaque over the door. Race raised an eyebrow.

"Fancy."

Flick, however, was already circling around to the side of the building, where she smiled triumphantly. Fancy or not, the Queens lodging house had a fire escape of the same style as Manhattan's, with a ladder leading down to the ground and up to the roof. And sure enough, there was a window opening out onto the fire escape. She grabbed the first rung and scrambled deftly upward, with Race hurrying to catch up. They were barely halfway to their destination when a swell of voices met their ears, a veritable uproar of chattering, shouting, and even a few crashes that could have been either people or furniture being knocked to the floor.

"All asleep, huh, Race?" Flick muttered, pulling herself onto the fire escape, then quickly crouching down in front of the window so that only her eyes were level with the glass. Race landed softly beside her a moment later, and, carefully ducking down out of sight, the two of them stared into the Queens bunkroom in disbelief.

_Pandemonium _was the only word to describe it. While the Manhattan lodging house had never been considered calm or orderly by a long shot, never had its bunkroom been packed wall to wall with a mass of screaming, yelling, kicking, punching, ducking, whimpering, biting, wrestling, wailing boys. Before Race and Flick's incredulous eyes, a small chair went flying, presumably from the hands of some anonymous member of the mob, and came inches away from hitting a boy on the other side of the room. He darted aside just in time, ducking as the chair met the wall with an ear-splitting crash and sharp splinters of wood flew in every direction.

In the center of the room, a crowd had gathered around two large boys who were rolling on the floor, viciously pounding each other as if they intended to go on for years. They obviously didn't believe in fighting fair, either; one kept pelting the other with anything within his reach, from a shoe to a pillowcase, while the first boy retaliated by grabbing a razor from a nearby bunk and brandishing the sharp sliver of steel. Flick winced, for the gleam of the metal served as a reminder; these were the same two thugs who had nearly killed her last night.

Another pair of newsies, these two apparently trying to rip each other's arms off, slammed into the first pair. A boy of about ten was tossed against the far wall like a toy, and Flick noticed another of no more eight cowering and crying under one of the bunks. She was just wondering how much longer this could go on when sudden footsteps rose from the street below. She and Race turned simultaneously, peering down through the darkness at a tall, shadowy form approaching the door of the lodging house. They held their breaths, but the phantom did not so much as glance in the direction of the fire escape. It simply opened the door and stepped inside. The door slammed shut, and the two spies returned their gazes to the window moments before the mystery figure entered the bunkroom, submitted to the dim gas lights for their inspection.

He was not another newsboy, but a man in his thirties—the tallest, thinnest man Flick had ever seen, with a complexion like sour milk, enormous hands, curly black hair, and a sharp, angular face with burning blue eyes. Clearly he was of some importance in the establishment, for upon his arrival, the entire bunkroom went silent. Every newsie who had another in his grasp quickly dropped the victim, some trying to muster expressions of innocence while others hid behind larger roommates. Flick's alert eye noted that the little boy under the bed retreated even further into his hideout rather than crawling out.

Finally, the man spoke, his voice containing a trace of a foreign accent and dripping with contempt. "Fighting _again?"_

No one answered, and the man rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, speaking impatiently.

"Well, who started it this time?"

The eyes of nearly every boy in the room were fixed on the floor. Only two looked up: the pair that struck dread into Flick. Both were thoroughly bruised and bloody; one still held the razor behind his back.

"Blade and Knocks?" the man guessed in a bored tone. The kid who had been slammed into the wall muttered something that might have been confirmation, but a pair of menacing looks quickly silenced him.

"You boys can't always expect me to be around to break up these little...disagreements," the man said slowly, scanning the room and pinning each lodger with a sickly smile. Then he shrugged nonchalantly. "It makes no difference to me. There are more newsies where you came from, some of whom might even pay their rent reliably."

With a dismissive wave of his hand, he left the room, and Flick and Race exchanged looks, both biting back somewhat hysterical giggles. So the phantom had been no more than the slightly more intimidating Queens version of Kloppman.

After he had disappeared, Flick half-expected the fighting to resume, but the boys merely shot dark looks at each other and dispersed, climbing into their various bunks. The smallest newsie emerged from his hiding place, and the two observers raised their eyebrows when the youngest boys both curled up on the floor near the door with ratty blankets.

"What's wit dat?" Flick murmured under her breath. "Dey got moah'n enough bunks. Half o' dem left afta deir rumble wit us, right?" And indeed, it became apparent as they took to their bunks that there weren't nearly as many lodgers as there had appeared to be in all the chaos. Flick estimated only fifteen or so.

Race shrugged in response to her question. "Maybe dey get rolled outta deir bunks ev'ry night. Or maybe it's jist safah neah da door. I mean, what if a scene like da one we jist saw happened in da middle o' da night?"

Flick nodded in agreement just as the newsie with the razor, the one who had wielded the knife the night before, slouched onto a bunk and broke the tense silence of the room.

"None o' dis woulda happened if it wasn't fer Manhattan. Crow was a fool, havin' us charge in dere like dat."

"We almost had 'em whipped, Blade," snapped the boy he'd been fighting, perching on another bunk. "We would've if it wasn't fer dat red-haired brat. 'Memba, _you _let 'er escape again las' night?"

"If you'd o' listened ta _me _an' gone back ta check dat alley..." Blade snarled, starting to rise, but a third voice interrupted them.

"Can't youse jist give it a rest fer once? Yeah, we lost dat fight an' half our lodgahs, but it was a _month _ago. It's _oveh. _Dat goil jist did what a Queens newsgoil woulda done if we had one an' she could fight like dat. Anyway, we don't got da time or de organization ta plan revenge. All we should be worryin' 'bout is findin' a leadah wit enough brains ta get us outta dis mess."

Impressed with the speech, Flick shifted her position to eye the speaker, recognizing him as the one who had nearly been hit with the chair. Medium height, brown hair, green eyes, and freckles; nothing spectacular. But he seemed perfectly composed, even as the boy called Knocks rose and approached him with dramatically slow strides, glaring.

"Yer gonna loin ta watch dat mouth o' yers, kid— "

"You can soak me all ya want, but it ain't gonna solve nuttin'," the boy countered, swinging deftly into the empty bunk above his own to escape the oncoming attack, but boldly continuing his oration. "Look at Tooth an' Toy oveh dere." He motioned at the two youngest newsies, causing Knocks' threatening scowl to swivel around, so that the children in question cowered, clearly eager to remain inconspicuous. "How long d'ya t'ink deyre gonna stick around wit da fights dat happen heah ev'ry day? How many moah are we gonna lose befoah someone _dies_...or some odda borough moves in an' takes us ovah widdout blinkin' an eye? It's only a matta o' time."

"Matta o' time," a blond boy echoed, glancing up from his bunk just in time to receive the full blast of Knocks' confused and wandering glare. Unfortunately, when the hapless boy looked away nervously, his gaze happened to catch the window. His eyes slowly widened as two more pairs of eyes, one brown and the other deep blue, stared back at him in a moment of pure horror. Then, wordlessly, Race grabbed Flick's hand, and the two of them darted across the fire escape, half-fell down the ladder, and tore back through the streets without a second's pause for breath until they were back where they had started the whole mad adventure.

_"Il mio Dio," _Flick panted, half-collapsing against the lamp-post to catch her breath, treating herself to a few gulps of smog-choked air and squinting at the dust motes floating in the watery beam of lamplight.

"Dat," Race replied, collapsing against her, "has got ta be one o' da stupidest t'ings dat you's—I'se—_we's _eveh done."

"I dunno," Flick mused, quickly recovering herself with a mischievous grin. "I t'ink it ended a lot betta den da time we broke inta dat high-rolla's apa'tment."

"Shoah, bring dat up," Race snapped, abruptly noticing his position and straightening up, slightly flushed. "Ya t'ink dat kid told de oddas he saw us?"

"Hard ta say. Looks like dat gang's even moah divided den we t'ought."

"Oh, brilliant deduction, _Maeve," _Race drawled, rolling his eyes dramatically. "We neahly got ourselves killed by Queens newsies fer da precious info'mation dat _da Queens newsies wanna kill us."_

_"Some _o' dem wanna kill us," Flick corrected, flashing back on the Queens bunkroom. Shivering, she grabbed Race's arm and dragged him past the lamp-post and down to the corner that split into two paths. They took the left fork, and both breathed easier; they were now walking the familiar streets of Manhattan. "Dey got a few voices o' reason, too, 'memba?"

"Yeah, an' see how well de oddas listened to 'em."

He waited for her comeback, then, as the silence began to unfold like a heavy quilt, realized she didn't have one. This made him uneasy somehow. Flick was never without a comeback.

Finally, as they arrived on the steps of the Duane Street lodging house, where every adventure seemed to end, Flick paused and held up a hand so he would do the same.

"Who are we gonna tell?"

"Dat's up ta _me?" _Race arched an eyebrow in frank surprise.

"It's up ta both of us." She tilted her head to one side. "I'se sorry I din't tell ya. About Queens an'...da knife an' ev'ryt'in'."

Something inside Race seemed to turn a flip. She had never apologized to him for anything before. The expression on her face as she did was unusual—softened, unguarded. Vulnerable? Not Flick...but it was the closest she had come since that night by the river. And as he looked at her, there was that sensation again, the one he had felt at the tracks—a swooping, a lightness, an abruptly quickened pulse. Was he going insane?

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbled obliviously when he remained silent, "I jist apologized to ya. I know it takes time ta sink in. Den you can call da _Woild _an' get it on da front page."

Race swallowed. "I'se sorry, too. 'Bout what I said at da tracks de odda night." He leaned on the porch rail and snuffed out his cigar, a sign of earnestness. "I undastand why ya did it, Flick. Kept quiet 'bout Queens, went back dere on yer own. Facin' t'ings, fightin' t'ings, it's...who ya are." Impulsively, he reached out and playfully brushed the wayward copper hair out of her face, something he had done a hundred times before. _"La fiamma più luminosa nella città."_

Flick jerked back without even thinking. There was no explanation for the reaction, except that it was so dark, her heart was still pounding from the danger they had narrowly escaped, and there was something strange about the whole scenario. As Race's voice lilted smoothly into that language she had only just begun to explore, her mind raced, still preoccupied with vocabulary, uncertain of the grammar, trying to piece together what he had said to her.

Race's hand dropped from her face, his brow crinkling slightly in confusion as he wondered how he had managed to muddle even an apology. He rushed on, hoping to rectify the situation. "I mean, it don't really bodda me, da way ya don't handle t'ings quite like odda goils. It was stupid, ev'ry't'in' I said dat night. It's jist dat...I worry 'bout 'cha sometimes...if you could jist trust me, jist let me know when t'ings get—"

"We'll tell Blink an' Mush," Flick announced loudly, raising her chin and turning away, shoulders squared. She almost stumbled in her haste to enter the lodging house.

"What?" Race called, hurrying after her, baffled by her behavior. He watched her sign the registration book; she didn't even look up at him when she repeated herself.

"We'll tell Blink an' Mush. 'Bout Queens. Dey desoive ta know. All my friends desoive ta know." And she started for the bunkroom, leaving Race to sign the book and follow, unaware of the peculiar hollowness inside him. She was too preoccupied with the rush of giddy fear that had overtaken her out on the steps, and she found her hand pressed against her own throat, over her fluttering pulse, as if holding on to something that had, for a moment, threatened to escape.


End file.
